


Live Without Shame

by ANocturnalCow212



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Daenerys Targaryen is in this, Endgame, F/M, Masturbation, Sex, Stark baby, Teen Romance, War for Dawn, atonement au, converges with Season 6 post-chapter 13, pre-series AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 161,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8330353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: When Catelyn's treatment of Winterfell's Bastard unexpectedly softens, Sansa reconsiders her relationship with Jon. But despite the revelations that ensue, Jon must and will always remain Winterfell's Bastard and suffer its consequences.Pre-Series. Inspired by Atonement.Converges with canon after Chapter 13.





	1. Revelations Long Overdue

It should have come as a relief, the news that her half-brother Jon was actually her cousin.

And for a time it did seem to relieve the tensions that had held the walls of Winterfell captive since she could remember. Sansa seemed to be the only one to notice that something was wonderfully amiss. Her mother’s usually cold demeanor around Jon had softened. She no longer stiffened or glared at her father whenever his day’s agenda included Jon, and she stopped insisting he be turned out as soon as he came of age. Arya, Bran and Rickon were not reprimanded nearly as much for loitering about the training yard where he and Robb spent their every idle moment sparring.  

With Catelyn’s defenses lowered for reasons she was not yet aware of, for the first time since Sansa had crossed the threshold to becoming a proper lady, she dared to join her siblings in keeping Jon company. While she didn’t partake in their boisterous reenactments of Old Nan’s tales, she found an odd pleasure in being close to the half-brother she had distanced herself from to gain Catelyn’s favor.

He was not flamboyant or princely like Robb. Rather, he was quiet, observant, dutiful and perhaps a little sullen. Though it was evident for all to see that her siblings were fond of him and he of them, he held back from the usual displays of affection. Sansa could not help but laugh at the bewilderment in Jon’s eyes one night when little Rickon, barely tall enough to reach his hips, grabbed hold of his leg in an embrace to say goodnight. Jon’s gaze met hers as he ruffled Rickon’s hair in acknowledgement. There was hurt in his eyes. But what for? Certainly, her amusement was not cruel.

Then it hit her. He had never known the loving touch of a mother, and if he had known that of his siblings’, he would have had to hide it from her mother. Without thinking about it twice, she closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around him. His arms remained slack at his sides, his expression bemused when she drew away from him. She went ahead and placed a kiss on his cheek.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

He searched her face, his mouth minced unspoken words, but all he did in the end was nod. He retreated with long panicked strides. Guilt flooded Sansa’s heart. She had spent all these years being cold to a boy, half-brother though he was, whose only fault was being born a Snow.

She understood why Catelyn despised him but that hate was hers to bear. Sansa was a fool to follow suit but now that Catelyn seemed to have changed her mind about him, it would make it easier for her to be the loving sister she should have been to him.

But she was no sister. She was his cousin.

Catelyn told her so under the utmost confidence in the privacy of her chambers.

She had brought up her mother’s uncharacteristic change in behavior towards Jon while her mother was busy combing out the tangles in her hair before bed.

“Your father has lied to all of us these seventeen years.”

Sansa took a deep breath. She hated thinking of how her noble, honorable father betrayed her mother. Rumor had it Jon’s mother was some tavern wench. A tavern wench to replace her lady mother. Preposterous. “Is it to do with Jon’s mother?”

“And his father.”

Sansa turned to look at Catelyn. “You mean…”

Catelyn’s eyes teared up. “Ned’s not Jon’s father.”

“But then…” Sansa choked, “Who?”

“He is your Aunt Lyanna and Prince Rhaegar’s son.”

“But that…That would make Jon a…”

“A Targaryen. Which is why you can’t tell anyone. Not Robb. Not Arya. Not Jeyne. If King Robert ever discovers who Jon truly is, he will have him murdered.”

The image of Jon with a hammer in his chest, blood spurting out from it, flashed before Sansa’s eyes. Her throat grew dry.

“Why did father wait so long to tell you? Why would he put you through so much misery for so long and tell you now?”

Catelyn looked at her hands on her lap. “It was on Jon’s account. I was so insistent that he leave that Jon thought the only other path left for him was to join the Night’s Watch. Ned thought if I could find it in my heart to show the boy some compassion, he wouldn’t write off his life so.”

“Does Jon know?”

“Yes, your father spoke to him. He felt it best that Jon know everything before he took the oath. The Night’s Watch will always be there but he may yet want to live a normal life.”

“But in the eyes of the world he is still a Snow,” Sansa frowned.

“Yes, well therein lies Jon’s quandary doesn’t it? But I tell you all of this as my eldest daughter and most trusted confidant. You are to tell nobody of this.”

“I hardly want him killed, mother.” Sansa sighed, “I feel awful. All these years I’ve been so terrible to him for no fault of his own.”

Catelyn pursed her lips and averted her gaze from Sansa. She turned her around to braid her hair and left with a terse, “Goodnight, love.”

***

Sansa came by Arya’s chambers to deposit the needle-work her younger sister had abandoned during lessons before disappearing. She was on her way out when Arya, sweaty and muddy, and in breeches instead of a dress, stormed in and ran into her.

“Get off of me!” Sansa cried, “You’ve got mud all over me.”

“What are you doing in here?” Arya countered.

“What am _I_ doing here? Where have you been all afternoon?”

Arya shrugged. “I’ve been sparring with the boys. I’m getting pretty good.”

“I’m going to tell mother you missed lessons again.”

“Like I care.”

“It’ll be time for supper soon. Get out of those things,” Sansa pointed at Arya’s breeches, “and put on something more respectable.”

Sansa slammed the door shut behind her. She wasn’t truly angry with her sister. She simply missed her company and would’ve liked to have her bad needle-work to distract her from her mother’s revelations the night before.

An idea took hold of her as she neared a bend in the corridor. Instead of returning to her chambers, she went downstairs to Jon’s chambers and let herself in without knocking.

“Jon?”

“Sansa!” Jon cried hoarsely. He was in front of the wash basin holding a piece of cloth to wipe himself, stripped down to nothing but his small clothes. “Sansa, what are you…” he fumbled as he reached for his jerkin. It was so dirty that he threw it aside and searched his tousled bed for something cleaner.

Sansa’s mouth went dry as she tried to avert her eyes from the planes of his flat stomach and the hard swells of muscle along his shoulders and arms. “I’m sorry, I should’ve knocked.” She caught herself taking another peek.

“No, no, it’s fine I just…” Jon gave up looking for something to cover himself with and tried to distract himself by wiping his arms with the cloth. “Is something the matter?” he asked, averting her eyes.

“No, everything’s fine.” Sansa leaned back against the door and allowed herself to look at him. It was difficult not to.

Jon dipped the cloth in the water and took it to the back of his neck, straining the muscles on his arm. He looked back at her, perplexed.

“I know about your mother and father, Jon.”

Jon gave his neck a brash swipe and tossed the cloth into the water. “You do, do you?”

Sansa sensed a hint of anger. “I – I’m not going to tell anyone. You can trust me.”

“I’ve been lied to my whole life. Forgive me, if I don’t believe you.” He reached for the cloth again and took it in and out of the water.

Sansa came up behind him as quietly as a cat in the dead of night and took the cloth from him. She squeezed out the excess water and turned him around so his back was facing her. She placed a timid hand on his shoulder blade to hold him still while the other wiped off the day’s sweat from his skin.

“I know you don’t love me like you do Arya but she’s too young and belligerent to keep a truth like yours quiet. Robb’s much the same.”

Her hand wiped lower and lower to the tie of his small clothes. She wet the cloth again and turned him around to face her. He seemed to be holding his breath. It made her smile.

“I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for you,” she said sincerely, as she wiped up the curve of his neck and behind his ears. Her ministrations stopped at his brow. “Will you let me be your friend, Jon? Will you let me atone for all the years I’ve been unkind to you?”

He fixed a stern gaze on her. It didn’t scare her as much as it thrilled her. A part of her, one that she didn’t know existed till now, longed to be reprimanded by him, but for the most part she hoped against all hope that he would let her in.

His eyes softened and with a resigned sigh, he nodded. His eyes were closed to her beaming smile.

***

After supper that evening, Jon tried to steal away from the hall to escape Sansa’s watchful gaze and her attempts to exercise her sudden closeness to him.  His face glowed bright red every time his mind wandered to her hands on his bare back and the way her eyes roamed his naked chest.  He thought his stealthy departure successful but his heart stilled at the sound of her voice carrying through the cavernous corridor.

“Jon!”

The bottom half of his body turned without the top half’s permission.

“You didn’t think you could leave without saying, ‘Goodnight,’ did you?”

He didn’t say anything.

Sansa wrapped her arms around his neck, her body pressed flush against his. He breathed in her scent. Lavender and lemon. She did love her lemon cakes. His hands rose to gingerly brush the curve of her waist.  It was so small he could clasp it with one hand. His breath caught in his throat as she turned her head and pressed her lips to his cheek.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

Jon drew away and cleared his throat. Nothing more.

In his chambers, he sat at the end of his bed for what could have been hours. His breathing was irregular and his chest felt tight. He felt tight everywhere, most troubling of all in his breeches. The feel of her hands against his naked torso assaulted him whenever he shut his eyes. Her breath on his skin as she kissed him, ‘goodnight’ still singed his skin.

When his physical faculties had returned to him somewhat, he stripped naked and lay down on the cold floor.

His hands edged down the line of coarse hair from his navel to his manhood. They stilled as the truth of what he was about to do dawned on him.

This was _Sansa_.

Naïve Lady Sansa dreaming of handsome princes all her waking hours and making plans of a grand wedding to a most suitable noble man. He had just about made it into her good graces. What would she think if she knew what he was about to do and do it thinking of her?

He threw an arm over his eyes and tried to will himself to stop but he only succeeded in conjuring more vivid images of her hands roaming his body, her red hair falling in a curtain around them as she straddled him, his hardened hands reaching out to encapsulate her small waist. She reached further down and grabbed hold of him, stroked him slowly, slickly, torturously, gloriously…

His arm fell away from his eyes. His body tensed and stretched taut as his own hands quickened over the length of his cock.

“Jon,” he heard her say, “Jon, Jon, Jon. I know. Will you let me?”

“Gods,” he growled into the empty room, writhing on the floor. He wished to say her name for the Gods to hear, to let them know just how perverse they had allowed him to become, but it wouldn’t come. He swallowed her name and felt it burn in the pits of his stomach. It coiled tighter and tighter until it snapped and flooded him, soaking through to the darkest corners of his soul.

“Gods.” He said again breathlessly. Not in contempt for his lewd thoughts but in gratitude. He had pleasured himself many a time before but it had never been so satisfying.

His mind lingered on his surprising lack of shame at what he had just done as he crawled into bed. As sleep took hold of him he decided that there was nothing to be ashamed of. This would be his secret and life would go on as it always had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thank you so much for reading. I set out to write an Atonement AU because of the striking similarities between Jon and Robbie's characters but realized half-way through writing that Jon and Sansa's relationship need to have some more groundwork laid out before I got into the meat of the story. Hope you've enjoyed it so far. Cheers!


	2. Trappings of Freedom

For a time, the truth about Jon lifted a heavy weight that Sansa did not know she carried. Large as Winterfell was, bad blood within any family could make things uncomfortable. She felt free. And she had, to her surprise, acquired a new, very different companion in Jon.

She found Jon sitting on the steps heading to the Godswood early one morning. Did he do that often? Had she truly rendered him so invisible all these years that she never noticed? It didn’t matter. He was here now. Her footsteps had pulled him out of his distant thoughts. He greeted her with an unsure and vulnerable smile that made her chest clench.

“You’re up quite early,” Sansa smiled back.

“And you.”

“Walk with me, Jon.”

She held out her hand for him to rise. Her eyes remained insistent even after he was on his feet. Unsure of himself, he offered her his arm. That was what she wanted. Sliding her delicate hand along his arm, as though out of years of habit, she pressed it ever so gently as they walked to the Godswood.

They prayed in silence, just the two of them. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. They didn’t linger after they had finished. When Sansa returned she didn’t have to hide who she was with. She didn’t fear a quarrel with her mother. She simply went about her day.

Early next morning, she found Jon sitting on the steps again.

***

After supper, Jon usually went to the training yard to practice his swordmanship on the pell. Curiously, he was always alone. Sansa found it remarkable that he could conjure the aggression in his strokes after eating. She herself was stuffed and drowsy from having one too many lemon cakes.

Not wanting to distract him, she approached him stealthily. His arms were sure and steady as they raised his sword and brought it down on the wooden dummy. His hair, thick, long and raven, swayed with his movements and he uttered a throaty grunt with each hit. It wasn’t disgusting like when he and the other boys belched. Rather, it embodied an intensity that she herself felt in the pits of her stomach.

“Hng…hng…hng.”

She felt like a spool of yarn being wound tighter and tighter, most painfully so as she unabashedly continued watching Jon hit the pell on the neck, on the side, the other side, on the neck…

He was out of breath when the pell released his attention. When he caught sight of her, he was too tired to be shocked by her presence.

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long. Getting better?” Sansa patted the hay beside her.

He came and sat beside her. His forehead was damp with sweat. More sweat spilled from his jerkin down his wrists. “You tell me,” he said with his unsure smile.

“Oh I don’t know much about swordmanship. You’d have to ask Robb or Theon…when they grace you with their presence. Where are they?”

“I don’t know if I should say.”

Sansa thought she spotted a mischievous spark in his eye. “Jon! Where have they gone?” She nudged his damp shoulder.

“You promise not to tell anyone?”

Sansa gave him a look. She, of all people, could keep a secret. He knew that.

“They’ve gone to the whorehouse.”

“No! Theon, I understand but surely not Robb too?”

“Robb is as much a lad as Theon, I’m afraid.” His smile grew more carefree. It was boyish and pleasant to look upon.  Sansa would go even go far enough to say that he looked handsome when he smiled so.

“And you? You’re not a lad like them?”

The spark in his eyes faded and he trained his gaze onto the ground. His voice was gruff and low. “Sansa, it’s not easy being a bastard. I could never risk marking an innocent child with the same fate.”

“It’s better now though, isn’t it?” It certainly was for her.

Jon shrugged. “It’s either being a Snow or a traitor’s spawn marked for death.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s just how it is, that’s all.”

“At least we’re friends now.”

“That we are.” His smile returned.

He had the warmest eyes. She had never noticed them before but now his gaze on her seemed to spread an unfamiliar prickly heat down her neck to her arms and legs. She reached out and swept some damp hair off of his forehead.

“You really should cut it, you know. A true lord should never look unkempt.” She playfully twisted a finger in his curls. “And you are a lord, Jon. No matter what your name may be.”

Jon could barely utter the words. “Thank you, Sansa.”

Sansa put her arms around him in an embrace. He returned it firmly, without trepidation. They stayed like that longer than usual, with his head buried in her hair. She didn’t mind that he was damp with sweat. There was something so comfortable about being engulfed in his strong arms and his clean woodland scent that she never wanted to let go of him.

“Goodnight, Sansa, “said Jon, pulling away.

“Goodnight, Jon.”

In her chambers, the security of Jon’s assured embrace lingered on Sansa’s skin as she dressed for bed. She caught herself smiling as she unbraided her hair and looked over her own reflection in the mirror before climbing into bed. Her breasts were filling out, as was her bottom. Soon she would look like a woman grown. She was composed of soft curves. Not hard lines like Jon’s body was.

She poured herself a goblet of water, thinking of the day she barged in on Jon in his chambers; how the troughs and crests of his hardened body enticed her into touching his bare skin. Unsettled by her regret of not wandering lower with the wet cloth, she buried her head into her pillow and tried to shut everything out, begging for sleep.

But her body remained unsettled. The prickly heat she had felt earlier down at the training yard had settled in the pit of her stomach, just below her navel. Her hand travelled down to the spotted and gently stroked it, sending a bolt of warmth shooting up her legs and making her loins clench tight. She let out a confused moan and stroked the sensitive spot below her navel again, this time gasping in reaction.

She slid her night rail up to her waist and felt the sensitive skin on her inner thigh. Her ministrations only caused her head to sink deeper into her pillow, and gasps to grow shallower, and presented more questions about what was happening to her that would go unanswered.

As alarming as these novel sensations were, she could not deny the pleasure she found in them. She wanted, no needed more. Her fingers travelled higher to the thatch of hair between her legs where she discovered, she was wet. She found it revolting at first, but she was alone. Nobody would judge her if no one knew. She was free. So she continued.

A potent spark of pleasure rippled through the entirety of her body as her fingers found the hardened nub hidden within her soft mound of flesh. The more she circled it the more potent the pleasure became.

“Hng…hng…hng…” she heard Jon grunt again and again and again. Why couldn’t he be here with her right now?

Her free hand squeezed one of her breasts in an attempt to replicate the feel of being pressed up against him.   

Gods I can’t breathe, she thought to herself as she moaned into her empty room, I must be dying. But she didn’t stop. Her finger’s motions quickened and added more pressure to the magical nub between her legs.

Soon the sound of Jon’s grunts mingled with her own in her head and she couldn’t take anymore. Her loins clenched forcefully and the rest of her body seized in complete submission to whatever it was she was working towards.

When the shocks wore off and her breaths steadied, Sansa was utterly confused and scared. She wished to be held. By Jon. Right that moment.

Sleep taking over her, she positioned her pillows parallel to her and lay against them, pretending it was someone. Pretending it was him. She drifted to sleep with a smile on her face.

The following morning, she met Jon on the way to the Godswood. He had combed his hair. She couldn’t meet his eyes.

***

A playful conversation about qualities to look for in suitors had turned into a dancing lesson for the boys. Arya had abandoned ship as soon as Sansa suggested the idea, so it was just her and Jeyne with the three boys. Robb was quick to choose Jeyne as his partner while Theon, to Sansa’s disappointment, swooped in to take her hand.

“Take care, Theon,” Robb warned, “Jon’s eyes are mine and he’s watching you like a hawk.”

Sansa looked at Jon and laughed. His eyes were warm and carefree tonight, just as she liked them, and they stayed planted on her as she taught a rapt Theon the steps to latest dance from King’s Landing. Her smile was absolutely irrepressible. She drew confidence from his unwavering gaze, whipping Theon’s face with her hair as she spun, pointing her toes with precision and bowing slowly to put every one of her blossoming curves on full display for Jon to see. His eyes grew darker and darker every time she glanced at him, returning the tingling sensations to the inside of her legs.

Jon looked at her hungrily. That was what he looked like. Which meant she must have looked like something to eat. The thought made her laugh out loud. Thinking she was laughing at his incompetence in the art, Theon grew nervous and mumbled an excuse to sit out the rest of the lesson. His resignation made him an easy target for Robb and Jon’s taunts.

“Come now you two, don’t be mean.” Sansa reprimanded. “Jon, you haven’t even danced yet. What are you doing making fun of Theon?”

Robb and Theon burst into laughter. “Come on, Jon!” They hollered, “Show us how it’s done!”

“Sansa,” Jon said sheepishly with outstretched arms.

Sansa drew closer, took one of his hands in hers and placed the other on her waist. His touch was so light it could have belonged to a ghost. She pressed his calloused hands onto the material of her dress with an encouraging smile.

He was not a skilled dancer. His hair fell over his eyes which were solely trained on their feet. He had no sense of direction as they danced, nor could he puzzle where Sansa’s feet would go and where his would. Her feet fell victim to his missteps. Soon they were throbbing and she had to stop.

Ignoring Theon’s taunts, Sansa tilted Jon’s head up by the chin to meet her eyes. “Jon,” she said in a low voice only meant to be heard by him, “what is the first thing they tell you to do when you spar with an opponent?”

Jon wracked his mind for the answer he thought she wanted to hear. He couldn’t think of anything so he told her the actual thing he was taught. “Never take your eyes off your opponent’s.”

“That’s right. It’s the same when you dance. You can’t take your eyes off your partner. Otherwise, you’ll never know which way she’ll go next. You have to use your intuition.”

They resumed their steps, this time looking at each other. Jon’s gaze on Sansa was steadfast. They moved without stumbling, as smooth as fresh cream. Cream that was warm at the top of the pail, much like Sansa’s small clothes with every passing moment. Jon’s apprehensions and embarrassment had been replaced by…by…what it was, Sansa could not say but it’s intensity left her parched and weak in the knees.

She reveled in his proximity and wished to draw nearer. She could have done it – embraced him there and then but she did not out of selfishness. Their short embraces before bedtime were theirs alone and she would not have it corrupted with the presence of her brother, much as she loved him, and certainly did not want Jeyne or Theon privy to her secret.

A secret. Why was her fondness for her cousin a secret?

***

Lady Catelyn came into Sansa’s chambers while she dressed for the day. She helped comb out the tangles in Sansa’s hair before braiding it like they did in the south. Her fingers nimbly wove her daughter’s hair as she studied her reflection in the mirror.

“Septa Mordane came to me yesterday,” she said. Her braids were painfully tight, making Sansa wince. “She said you’ve been acting listless during lessons.”

“Have I?”

Catelyn pulled her hair tighter.

“Ow! Mother!”

“You look like you haven’t slept in days. Perhaps if you didn’t stay up so late spending time at the training yard, you wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Mother, I promise you I sleep well enough at night.” Untrue. She had not had a peaceful spell of sleep in days.

“Need I remind you that you are a lady? It’s not becoming for Lord Stark’s eldest daughter to be sneaking about the castle after supper.”

“Really mother, it’s just Jon.”

“That boy may not be Ned’s bastard but that knowledge does nothing change his disposition.”

Sansa pried her mother’s hands out of her hair and turned her head around to glare at her. “And what is his disposition, mother?”

“He was not raised to be a lord. How could he be? He isn’t bound by the rules of honor or propriety. Who’s to say he hasn’t given into the base nature of his title?”

Sansa was livid. She raised her voice. “If you took the time to know Jon, you would know that he would never do that!” Her voice trembled She felt tears welling up in her eyes.

“Enough!” Catelyn reined her daughter in by the hair, “The boy’s influenced you more than I thought.  But no matter. Soon he will be going to the Neck and we can put this all behind us.”

“The Neck?” Sansa’s heart stopped. “Why’s he going to the Neck?”

“Your father’s sending him there with a trade envoy. Good riddance is what I say. And till he goes, I expect you to behave as a lady should, do you understand me?”

Sansa didn’t respond. Her mother must have misheard. Jon had never mentioned going to the Neck. Not once.

***

For a time, Sansa believed that her mother _had_ lied to her to get her to behave. Jon did not mention leaving and he had plenty of opportunities to do so – on their morning walks to the Godswood, sometimes at supper, at the training yard after supper, when they gathered with the rest of her siblings in the nursery. But he did not mention it.

Then, the night before the envoy to the Neck was to depart, Robb raised his goblet at supper in honor of Jon. Sansa stared at the boys celebrating, utterly dumbfounded. Her heart had climbed up her throat and she wanted to burst into tears. But as she continued to watch her siblings and Theon tease and embrace Jon, her lips settled into a hard line.

When Jon looked up at her, his smile vanished. Her eyes were cold and indifferent. His mouth grew slack and he knew he should say something. Anything. But he simply could not find the words.

Sansa retired to her chambers soon after. Her chest heaved with incredulity. She thought they were close companions, he and her. How could he have not told her? How could he have not prepared her? How could he go on as if his being away from her meant nothing to him? Perhaps she did mean nothing to him. Perhaps all those years of indifference she had shown him made him incapable of seeing her as anything but a distant relation.

She was fuming when she climbed into bed in her night rail. Sleep could not overpower her anger. She lay in bed staring at the bed curtains and the window beyond it. She lay there and lay there when…

There was a soft knock on the door. She was in no mood to see anyone but deep down she hoped it was _someone._

Another soft knock.

Kicking off the bed furs, Sansa stomped to the door and haughtily swung it open.

It was Jon, his hair disheveled from tossing around in bed and his billowing night shirt hastily tucked into his breeches.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at him before turning her back to him. “What do you want?”

She heard Jon close the door behind him. “Sansa?”

“Yes, Jon? It’s late.”

“We didn’t say goodnight, and I thought since I won’t be seeing you I’d…”

“Yes,” Sansa said crossing her arms over her chest. “I understand that Father discouraged you from taking the Black so now you’re riding to the Neck.”

Jon squared his shoulders and locked his jaw, just like he did on the rare occasion he spoke to someone of higher stature. Clearing his throat, he spoke in a lower register. “Aye, Lord Stark says it’s a good opportunity to weigh my options. I’d be steward to Howland Reed. The Crannog men are quite different from the rest of Westoros. They’re not much bothered by Snows and such. It wouldn’t be a bad place to settle down. Start a family.”

Sansa took a sharp breath. “Oh. Well, I suppose you’d be getting everything you’ve ever wanted then.”

Jon’s eyes implored Sansa. He looked so vulnerable that she longed to take him in her arms and cradle his head. She wanted to stroke his raven locks and hum him a lullaby as he drifted to sleep. But she couldn’t. Because he did not belong to her.

“Sansa, there’s nothing for me here.”

“Just your family.” Just _me_.

“Sansa,” Jon stepped closer to her, “sooner or later, we’re both going to have to leave Winterfell. You’re going to marry a noble lord and you know I’m not going to live out my life only being Ned Stark’s bastard.”

He was hovering over her now, his breath warm on her face. She desperately wanted to lean into his warmth, his woodland scent, his strong arms. But her anger at him was too powerful. She looked him squarely in the eye and flashed him a curt smile.

“I suppose there’s nothing left to do but to wish you the best of luck, Jon Snow.”

“Sansa,” Jon groaned, exasperated. He leaned his forehead towards hers but she stepped away.

“It’s late. I have lessons early in the morning and would like to go to sleep if you don’t mind.”

Jon looked at her one last time before nodding and leaving.

The next morning, instead of going to the Godswood Sansa went up to the castle’s battlements where she saw a cluster of men on horses heading south. Lagging behind was a boy with raven hair. Anger finally gave way to melancholy, and Sansa cried.

***

The tumult of anger and sadness raging within her subsided within the moon’s turn and Sansa went back to feeling like her old self. Septa Mordane no longer thought she seemed listless during lessons and Lady Catelyn had no reason to reprimand her eldest daughter.

Still, sometimes late at night the vivid memories of a certain scent, the feel of hardened muscles under her palm and certain masculine grunts sent her reeling in fits of torturous pleasure. And every time her body came down from her high she hoped, no prayed that he was tortured just as much by memories of her. And every time she prayed, her heart sank because he saw no reason to stay. He left Winterfell. He left her.

A moon’s turn became ten moon’s turns. Sansa was making her father a new jerkin during sewing circle. As usual, Arya was not present. She thought she would miss another lesson when, to her astonishment, Arya came bounding in, out of breath.

“Sansa! Jon’s back!”

Sansa pricked her finger but hid her emotions. She looked off into the distance, her vision growing blurry, unable to say or do anything. With great effort, she managed to put the needle through the fabric once more and then again.

“Did you hear me?” Arya shook her. “Jon’s back! Come on!”

“That’s very good, Arya,” Sansa said, her voice lifeless, “What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Well, let’s go see him!”

“I’m busy, Arya. And you should be working on your roses.”

Arya begged Septa Mordane to excuse them both.

“Sansa dear,” she said, gently touching Sansa’s work, “He has returned after a long time. It’s alright if you wish to see him.”

“Thank you Septa Mordane,” Sansa looked up. “But Jon and I’ve never had much to say to one another.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wowowow! I was not expecting this story to get the love it's gotten. Thank you so much for reading and sharing your love. I know a lot of my fellow Jonsa shippers have been bummed about GoT season 7 spoilers (myself included) so I hope you feel better after reading this. Cheers!


	3. Two Figures

Sansa tarried from going down to supper that evening. She had made herself scarce around the castle the whole day, taking up more things to sew and embroider, and pouring over books without quite reading them.  No matter how busy she made herself or how silly she thought herself, she couldn’t get her hands to stop shaking.

Jon was back.

But that should not have mattered. She stalled in her chambers, staring at her reflection. She could have washed and combed her hair. She could have put on a fresh dress and pinched her cheeks rosy pink. But she didn’t. Because she had no reason to, she told herself.

She had hoped she could accompany her mother down to supper but her mother had already gone downstairs. Everyone had. Their jovial voices echoed through the corridor, past the bearers as she approached. Perhaps her entrance would go unnoticed.

She desperately wanted to keep her eyes trained on the floor and go to her seat in peace but, as ocean’s waves are to the shore, her eyes found him.

Jon leapt off of his seat on seeing her. His abruptness shifted everyone’s attention on her.

Robb gave her one of his smug wolfish grins. “There she is. All that sewing and dancing’s got our Sansa in a perpetual state of fatigue, hasn’t it?”

“It’s not polite to mock, Robb,” Sansa narrowed her eyes. She headed to her seat. From the corner of her eyes she saw Jon nod to himself and sit back down.

She helped herself to some soup and nimbly sipped on it. When she raised her gaze she saw Jon looking at her with that lost look of an innocence of a lost child. How was it possible for her to be so pleased and so angry at seeing someone? Why did she feel like scratching his eyes out and caressing his raven curls at the same time?

“You’re the one to talk about manners,” Arya scoffed, chewing with an open mouth. “Have you even said, ‘hello,’ to Jon since he’s come back?”

Sansa looked at Jon with bated breath. She felt her ears grow hot.

Jon cleared his throat. “How are you, Sansa?”

“Very fine, thank you Jon. I’m surprised you’re back from the Neck so soon.” Just ten moons. “Didn’t take well to it, I assume?”

“The Neck was a fine place. The Crannog men are a fine people. Lord Reed has been very kind to me.”

“Have you found yourself a good Crannog girl to wed then? Wasn’t that the plan when you left?”

Robb and Theon burst out laughing.

Sansa looked at them innocently before joining the boys in their laughter. “Mother and I’ll be glad to make you the wedding cloak when the time comes. Won’t we mother?”

Catelyn didn’t find her daughter’s taunts amusing. “That’s enough, Sansa.”

A look from her and Ned were enough to frighten Robb, Sansa and Theon into abandoning the subject. They resumed sipping soup and shoveling food into their mouths. All of them except Jon who seemed to have drifted away to some far off place.

“I have learned a great deal under Lord Reed’s tutelage and I’m grateful for that,” Jon said gravely, “But I am a Northman and I’d like to stay in the North so long as I can help it.” His expression darkened.

Sansa rubbed her thighs together as a now familiar throbbing resumed between her legs. She could hardly force her food down but she kept eating because there was nothing else she could do to avoid meeting Jon’s eyes. After supper she thought she saw Jon trying to part from Theon and Robb and Arya’s company to get to her but she hurried upstairs to her chambers before he ever got the chance.

***

Ned and the boys, barring Rickon, had gone to execute a deserter of the Night’s Watch. They returned with six direwolf pups. Sansa was reading in the courtyard, enjoying the afternoon sun, when she heard an excited squeal from the archway and saw a grey-white pup bouncing her away.

“Why, hello there. Where did you come from?”

It stood on its hind legs before burrowing under her skirts. Sansa giggled uncontrollably at the feel of its soft fur against her thin stockings.

“They seem to choose their masters themselves,” said a deep voice. “Nearly tore Theon’s finger off to get to you.”

Sansa’s heart stopped. She fished the pup out from under her skirt and held it to her chest for strength. Jon walked up to her with a smile on his face. He held a white pup with red eyes in his gloved hand. Sansa’s hold on the pup tightened. She hadn’t been alone with Jon since he returned.

Jon scratched his pup behind the ears. “I’m thinking of calling him Ghost. What do you say?”

Ghost gave a little whimper. Jon let him down. The pup padded over to Sansa and nuzzled against her leg.

“Hello, Ghost.” She looked at her own pup. “And what shall we call you?”

The pup gave her nose a lick and leapt off her to go to Jon. It tapped on his shin and backed away, looking up at him expectantly. Jon laughed and picked it up and cradled it like a babe. “You’re a proper lady like your mistress aren’t you?”

Sansa looked at Jon, appreciating how carefree he looked in that moment. She needed to get close to him but her annoyance with him for leaving still made her chest twinge.

“Sansa?”

“Lady,” she said, trying to fight the tide pulling her into the abyss.

Jon squeezed the little pup with one gloved hand. “Then Lady you’ll be.” He put her down and looked up at Sansa, wishing she would say something to him. Anything.

But the moment passed and he bowed to leave. Ghost lingered to play with Lady but Jon needed his new companion with him. “Come along, Ghost. We must give the ladies time to get acquainted with one another.”

***

Not long after the direwolves became a part of their family, Sansa began to have vivid dreams of Jon. Sometimes he was fast asleep wearing nothing but his small clothes, his bed furs kicked off and his skin slightly damp with sweat. His face was at peace and his male scent intoxicating. She felt as though she was actually nuzzling into his hard chest. Sometimes she felt his calloused fingers stroke her spine or heard him mumble incoherent nonsense into her ear. Such innocent dreams had the ability to make her shiver in her sleep but they also bestowed on her the most peaceful nights she had ever known.

Then there were nights when she heard Jon’s shallow breaths in the dark. She knew she was somewhere in his chambers but she could never see higher than the floor. He sounded like he was panting from exertion. He would utter deep groans and strangled moans that were neither pained nor exhausted. They were something entirely new to Sansa’s conscience and they became the hammer to the throbbing between her legs.

“Sansa!” he would cry, his voice sometimes clear enough to be a war cry, sometimes a barely audible whisper. “There’s a good girl,” he’d chant. “Yes, like that. Mmph. Ungh.”

There were times when she caught glimpses of him climbing out of bed buck naked with a hand cupping his manhood. He would stumble to the wash basin, soak a cloth in water and wipe himself. He would stand there, motionless, leaning against the basin with his firm bare bottom on full display. She desperately wanted to reach out and caress it. She so desperately wanted to be undressed with him, to have him watch her as she pleasured herself.

She desperately wanted Jon.

The realization terrified her. Surely, ladies were not meant to harbor such wanton desires. She had touched herself because it brought her relief but she had only now realized what precisely she needed relief from. From Jon. From her desire for him. From her desire to be desired _by_ him.

She knew it was wrong but she couldn’t help herself. In the day, she conducted herself as always – a distant sister to Jon and a proper lady – but at night, especially on nights when her dreams left her small clothes soaked, she thought of him and writhed as his name tumbled from her lips over and over again.

She felt the sun creeping up on her one day and wished it would delay its arrival just this once. The night’s visions and subsequent labors had left her in no state to face the demands of the day. To her annoyance, she felt her bedside slump under a familiar weight and that same weight climb on top of her soon after.

“Arya, it’s too early. Go back to sleep.”

Arya climbed under the furs and snuggled up to her. “Do you remember when we used to sleep like this in the nursery?”

“You’re not a babe anymore.” Sansa grumbled but smiled. She patted the arm Arya had thrown over her. “You can stay so long as you sleep.”

She heard Arya sigh into her back but her breaths never deepened with sleep.

“Sansa?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you speak to Jon anymore?”

All sleep left Sansa. Her heart hammered violently against her chest. Did Arya know? “I do,” she managed, “We just don’t have much time for one another’s company that’s all.”

“That’s just silly.”

“Well, when you’re old enough you’ll find yourself asking more and more often where the time went. Jon’s busy with training and minding the books with father and I’m—“

“…busy with your sewing?”

“You mustn’t belittle my sewing so. How else would you have two new pairs of practicing breeches?”

Arya gasped. “What?”

Sansa turned to her and smiled. “Your dresses are too fine to get muddied every day and, I’ll admit they’re not the most practical attire for sudden movements.”

“Oh Sansa!” Arya squealed, squeezing the breath out of her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“All right, all right. Now will you let me sleep?”

***

Winterfell was in chaos. News of Jon Arryn’s death was promptly followed by news that King Robert Baratheon and his family would be coming to Winterfell with an offer for Ned Stark. With only a few moons to prepare for the accommodations for the royal party, Catelyn had turned the castle on its head; airing bedding, thoroughly cleaning the rooms, and arranging for all the luxuries Southerners were accustomed to.

As eldest daughter of the household, Sansa shadowed her mother from dawn to dusk. There would be no greater learning experience than an occasion such as this. The added workload left little to no time to ponder on her equally potent feelings of anger and desire for Jon. But by no means did that mean the forces raging within her were diminished, for now that she was obliged to mill about the castle grounds, her momentary encounters with Jon grew more frequent.

His manner was always polite, subservient even, but guarded and hard. Much as she would have liked, she never saw the childlike softness in his expression nor the twinkle of familiarity and camaraderie she had briefly glimpsed before he left for the Neck. But without fail, she slowed her pace when she walked from one end of the castle to the another on her errands in the hopes that she would chance upon him. When she did come upon him, her heart always leapt to her mouth and her words failed her. Every time she came away chastising herself for her own coldness but she also wanted to slap him for not seeing past it. He was after all a man of the world now. Couldn’t he see what she was going through?

Her preoccupation with Jon eventually had an adverse effect on her work. The sleeve she had been making for Prince Joffrey was nowhere near finished when a scout informed the Starks that the royal party was only a day’s ride away. A younger Sansa would have finished the sleeve within the day but now she had lost all interest in seeing the token completed.

It was almost dawn when she had another one of her dreams. She wasn’t in Jon’s chambers as usual. This time she was in the kennels with Ghost, Grey Wind, Shaggy Dog, Summer and Nymeria – all asleep. She looked around for Lady but she didn’t see anything. Ghost awakened and padded across to the door. Moments later she heard the bolt on the other side slide. The door opened to reveal Jon. He was wearing his breeches over his tunic like the night he had come to her chambers.

She moved towards him and brushed her side against his leg. Jon’s calloused hands gently stroked her behind her ears. She let out a satisfied whine. “Good morning, Lady. You’d like a walk too, wouldn’t you?”

Sansa’s eyes fluttered open. She sat up with her palm grasping at her forehead.

“Lady?” she called into the empty chamber. She wasn’t there of course. She had taken her to the kennel the night before.

She had a drink of water and walked to the window, where she unconsciously unbraided her hair and combed her fingers through it as she looked past the vast woodlands past the high walls of Winterfell. She had no explanation for what she had just seen, or had been seeing for days for that matter, but she knew it was no dream. She knew where she could find Jon. Where she could be alone with him after so long.

She was still angry with him for leaving, of course. And perhaps she should not go atall. She turned her attention to the sleeve she was making for Prince Joffrey but the fire in her chambers had grown dim and there wasn’t enough natural light to sew inside yet.

Enough, she told herself. Without giving herself another moment of doubt she threw on some light furs over her flimsy night rail, grabbed her sewing box and Prince Joffrey’s sleeve and headed for the Godswood.

Jon was playing on the steps with Ghost and Lady.

“Up for your usual walk to the Godswood?” Sansa asked coolly.

Jon looked up, almost unable to believe his eyes. He sprang to his feet and kept in step with Sansa. “Aye. And you? I was starting to think you’d abandoned prayer.”

“How funny you are, Jon. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“It’s too early to judge, I reckon. Give it an hour or two.”

“Father says you’re getting a good deal better at minding the books than Robb is. Will you be around to keep an eye on him if the King asks Father to be his Hand or do you intend to flee Winterfell again?”

Jon stopped in his tracks. “I didn’t flee Winterfell. Lord Reed extended an invitation to me.”

Sansa regretted her words. “I didn’t mean it that way. You just left so suddenly that I –“

She continued walking and looked for the right words to salvage the conversation. “The royal party should be in by this evening.”

“So, I heard.” Jon was keeping up with her frantic pace effortlessly with his hands behind his back. Like a distinguished lord.

“Prince Joffrey will be with them. And Tommen and Marcella, of course. But they say Prince Joffrey is as fair and gallant a prince as ever was sung about in the songs of old.”

“I’m sure he is the epitome of chivalry,” Jon said with a small smirk. “Is that for him?” he asked pointing at the sleeve.

“It could be. Depends on whether I finish it or not.” She walked past the Weirwood over to the hot springs where there were some nice spots by the steaming water where they could sit. Sansa sat right on the edge and splayed her hair over a branch nearby so that her hair absorbed the steam.

“Aren’t those usually handed out at tourneys and such? When the knight actually does something worth rewarding?”

“Sometimes they are.”

“Are you arranging a tourney at Winterfell, Sansa? Does Lady Stark know?”

Sansa looked at him incredulously and saw that his face was alight with a smile. He was amused at her expense. “I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about kindling new bonds. Or nurturing old ones for that matter.”

The laughter didn’t leave Jon’s voice. “But offering a lad a token just for breathing still seems unwarranted, even from you.”

“Joffrey Baratheon is not just some lad!” Her voice trembled. She composed herself. “He is our guest and our guests will receive all the hospitality and tokens we see fit.”

Jon watched her prepare a needle with thread and swiftly threaded a few stitches onto the fabric. His eyes travelled to the nape of her exposed neck. The steam had dispersed the lavender fragrance from her hair, intoxicating him, drawing him dangerously closer to her. Sansa ignored his advances and continued embroidering.

“It looks a little small,” Jon finally said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sansa fumed. “It’s perfect.”

“Perfect enough for Rickon. Your Prince Joffrey’s a man grown. Here, let me try it on for size.”

“Really, I’d rather not.”

He tugged on the sleeve despite Sansa’s resistance. “Sansa, you can’t give the lad an undersized sleeve. Just let me –“

“Stop calling him a lad and I don’t want you trying it. It’s not yours.”

“I’m trying save you from embarrassing yourself.”

“I don’t need you saving me from anything. Jon!”  
“Sansa!”

Their pulling and shoving sent Sansa’s sewing box tumbling into the hot water with a splash. Both of them dropped the sleeve and stared at the ripples in the water left by the now sunk box.

“Now look what you’ve done! Do you realize all the colors I need for the sleeve were in that box?”

Jon tried to stifle a laugh. “What will we give Joffrey now?” His laughter got the best of him.

Sansa moved to launch herself at him.

“Sansa, your hair!”

Eyes ablaze with fury, she turned around and picked her hair off of the branch. Standing to her full height she threw her furs off and leapt into the water.

Jon stared at the water as the red of her hair disappeared under a cloud of steam. A moment drew out into a lifetime as he watched and waited for her to return. He had begun pulling his tunic from his breeches when she sprang out of the water with her box and the assorted rolls of thread that had fallen out of it.

Her night rail was soaked transparent. No dream he had had thus far held a candle to the vision standing before him, proud, furious, regally exquisite. He blinked to wake himself but this was very much real. She seemed to dare him to look. Dare him to look at every curve of her supple body and not run his hands over them. Not want to kiss every inch of her pink skin, or lick the glistening sweat off it.

His breath caught at the sight of the red triangle over the apex of her legs and the way her thighs rubbed one another. He wished to lose himself between those legs, breathe her in and hide her away somewhere deep inside him. His feet felt unsteady the longer he looked.

Sansa tossed the thread, needles and sleeve into the box and closed it aggressively. She smoothed her wet hair from her face and hastily engulfed her exposed body in her furs again. Without another word or glance she marched out of the Godswood.

Jon remained where he was slack-jawed and paralyzed. His breeches had grown painfully tight and he couldn’t stand for fear of tearing them. He was in pain. Not just in his nether region but in his chest as well.

If only he was good with words the way Robb was. If only he was skilled in the fine art of flattery. But he was just Jon Snow. Tactless and uncouth Jon Snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Just letting you know that I read all your messages/comments and am so so happy you guys are enjoying the story. The love I get from you is the biggest encouragement I have to keep writing so thank you!


	4. The Letter

Jon would have rubbed himself limp right there and then had he not been in the Godswood. His depraved thoughts and actions may have been free to flourish in the secrecy of his bedchambers but he would not be so daft to do something so foolish when his Lord Uncle could so easily come upon him. His little secret was on the brink of escaping him, out into the open, for everyone to know. For Sansa to know.

He reproached himself, forcing visceral images of Uncle Ned’s sword, Ice coming down on the deserter’s head, images of blood spurting from his body, his head rolling away towards Bran’s feet.

This calmed his rebellious manhood into enough complacency for him to walk straight. He returned Lady and Ghost to the kennels, returned to his bedchambers and buried his head in his pillow until it was time to break his fast.

Lady Stark ordered Robb, Theon and Jon to the bathhouse afterwards. “I’ll not have the royal family thinking Winterfell a haven for filthy tinkers.”

They were doused in piping hot water and scrubbed till their skin threatened to peel off. Robb and Theon were busy discussing the rumored beauty of the Southron Queen and all the beautiful Southron girls Prince Joffrey got to stab with his right royal prick while the barber sheared Jon’s hair and shaved the smattering of hair on his cheeks.

He wanted to think of Southron girls. They said they dressed loosely, showing skin and the tops of their bosoms. They did their hair up like bee hives. Sansa had tried it a few times. He much preferred her hair down. Wet. Dripping water down the front of her shift, just touching her…

He let out an involuntary groan which drew Robb and Theon out of their conversation. Laughing nervously, he said to the barber, “Not so hard, Tommy. You’ll scar my face up before the Queen can get a good look at me.”

The boys laughed.

“Jon, my boy,” Robb said with a pat on the shoulder, “You’ll have to find the courage to put your cock in a whore first.”

***

The Royal party arrived around midday. Jon stood alongside Theon, behind the family Stark.

Jon couldn’t take his eyes off Sansa and because she very consciously paid him no mind, he didn’t have to. She looked radiant. Her red hair flowed freely down her back. What he wouldn’t give to bury his face in the scent of her hair.

King Robert, a far cry from the songs of his rebellion and the warrior who Jon had envisioned killing his father, seemed take to Sansa the moment he saw her but he didn’t linger. He grabbed Uncle Ned by the arm and headed for the crypts once the pleasantries were dealt out and received. Lady Stark ushered the Queen into the castle to get them settled in.

Prince Joffrey, was a pretty boy who was pale and slight in figure. He lingered in the courtyard and his every action made Jon clench his fists tighter and tighter. He licked his lips on seeing Sansa bow to him and then kissed her hand and showered her with compliments. How very much like the poet princes Sansa praised to the high heavens. Jon couldn’t even get her to sit next to him.

Ever the proper Lady, Sansa introduced him to her younger siblings. Arya had already disappeared. Then she came to Theon and finally to Jon.

“Jon Snow,” Joffrey snarled, sizing him up. He was almost as tall as Jon but Jon was broader and could easily snap his neck. “The Bastard of Winterfell?”

Sansa’s mouth fell open in a silent gasp. She looked from Jon, whose jaw was in a tight lock, to Joffrey.

“And they just let you roam around with nobility as you please?”

“Jon is part of our family.” Sansa said, trying to reign in her temper. “He may not be a Stark by name but we’ve never thought of him as anything else.”

“You’ll find he’s a fine swordsman too,” Robb chipped in. “Finer than I am, I’ll admit.  Are you fond of swordsmanship, Your Grace? Perhaps you’d like to spar with one of us while you’re at Winterfell.”

“I’m a future king, not some lowly soldier. Swordsmanship is more of an interest for my Uncle Jaime.”

Robb’s eyes sparkled. “Aye, he does have quite the reputation in our parts. I just assumed given your legendary lineage you would have a natural – oh what is it called?”

He looked at Sansa for help but she returned his silent inquiry with a glare.

“Affinity! That’s what it is. Natural affinity towards swordsmanship. Do you not have it, Your Grace?”

“I certainly don’t have to prove it to the likes of you,” Joffrey sneered. “And certainly not to a bastard.” He wheeled around to face Sansa. “I’d like a tour of the castle, my Lady.”

Sansa looked behind him, at Jon and Robb.

“Do you find that disagreeable?” Joffrey pressed. There was malice in his voice.

“Of course not, Your Grace. I just presumed you’d like to take some rest. You’ve had a very long journey.”

“I’m not some babe. Sansa – was it? I am the future king of the Seven Kingdoms and I would like to see the castle.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa said with a pretty smile. She knew it would not do to anger him. “Please, come this way.”

Joffrey did not move. He pointed his elbow out. “My Lady, I will do you the honor of taking my arm. You will be the envy of every maid that looks upon you.”

Sansa gazed at him, more his arm, for a moment. She hesitated for a moment lightly wrapping her hand around his arm.

Theon sniggered as they watched them disappear inside. “I reckon he’ll be stabbing her with his royal prick before night’s end.”

Jon’s nostrils flared. “You shut your filthy mouth, Greyjoy!”

“I was only jestin’ a bit.”

“That’s my sister you speak of,” Robb growled. “You’ll speak of her with respect. As if she were your own, you understand me?”

“I don’t know what you two are thumpin’ about,” Theon mumbled. “Sansa’s dreamt of being a queen since she was a little girl. She doesn’t mind getting that sad excuse of a prince’s attention.”

Jon recognized the dejected tone in Theon’s voice. He knew that Theon sometimes fancied marrying Sansa to cement his place at Winterfell. Whether he wanted Sansa for the practical gain of it or whether he actually cared for her, he did not know. How could he not though? She was perhaps the most beautiful young maid they had every crossed paths with and Theon loved women.

He and Theon, and Gods knew how many other young lads had their eyes on Sansa. The thought quelled Jon’s anger towards Joffrey but also dampened his spirits.

Robb’s gaze remained planted on the doorway through which Sansa had taken Joffrey inside. “I’m going to go after them. See that that wimp of a boy doesn’t try to exercise more than his command on Sansa.”

He left Jon and Theon sulking in the courtyard. After taking their midday meals from the kitchens they parted ways; Theon went to the whorehouse and Jon to his chambers.

***

Jon had discovered what it was like to be coveted during his time at the Neck. He supposed it was because he looked markedly different from most Crannog men, something new. The girls who cornered him in dark alcoves or at the stables always said he, “was a pretty one”. If Robb or Theon had been there, he reckoned they would have swooned.

His admirers weren’t only young maidens. Some of them were quite old – almost the same age as Lady Catelyn. One of them, a widowed tavern wench with two children, tricked him into a vacant chamber in her tavern and pulled out her breasts from her dress for him to see. They were glorious to behold of course but rather than awaken his lust, they had astonished him into inaction.

“What’s the matter boy?” she said, pressing them into his face, “Have ye never seen a woman’s teats before?”

Jon dug his face out and moved away from her. “I-I’m sorry, I can’t.”

The woman looked him over. “Are ye one of them others? You like lads do ye?”

Jon reckoned he’d turned scarlet. “No, no. It’s not that.”

“Then yer heart’s set on a fair maiden back where you’re from, I bet. Did she keep yer bed warm for ye?”

He thought of Sansa in that moment. Dreaming of her under the cover of night.

“No it’s nothing like that.”

She combed her fingers through his hair, leaning in for a kiss. “Then what is, love?”

Jon looked away, his breaths shallow, and gently pushed her away by the arms. “I’m a Snow. I will not sire a bastard.”

The widow laughed. “That it? You know nothing do ye, love? There are ways to get around that you know. Babes aren’ made every time a man fucks a woman.”

“Really?”

“Aye. A smart lass would be takin’ her moon tea. And a lad lookin’ to keep himself out of trouble would know better than to finish inside the wench. Does that mean anything to ye, love?”

Jon thought he understood. He gulped and nodded.

“Now,” she said with finality. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him to her. “Lucky for you, I’ve been drinking me moon tea so you’ll not be siring any bastards from me.”

She kissed him hard and deep. The motions came to him naturally but in the back of his head it all felt wrong. He kept seeing red hair, blue eyes and a warm smile. He heard a voice that tugged at him by the chest.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, pulling away. “I still can’t.”

“Shame,” she said running her thumb over his lips, “So gifted but so green. I envy the lass who’s got your heart.”

***

Jon’s head was buried in his pillow. His insides writhed with jealousy. Joffrey, Theon and countless others. What chances did he have? He, a boy she had seen as her half-brother her entire life, the same boy who had lost the ability of speaking two words to her without infuriating her, the very same boy who had, just this morning, ruined the sleeve she had been working on for Gods knew how long. He, the boy of low birth with no prospects.

Every shred of his being itched to take control but how? Sansa must have been livid at him after the way he had gawked at her almost naked form that morning.

But she came to his defense in the courtyard.

Jon wanted to punch Joffrey’s smug little face into the ground. He could be charming Sansa right at that moment, while he sulked alone in his bedchambers.

But Sansa is no naïve maiden. He saw the disdain on her face when Joffrey spoke ill of him. She would see past his title and his future and would not be charmed so easily.

He missed their goodnight embraces so dearly. How many precious embraces had he lost due to his utter incompetence? How many more could he have if she were to marry soon?

He needed to be close to her once more. Perhaps not in the sense he fantasized about at night but just as Jon and Sansa. Before the Neck. Before this morning at the Godswood.

Jon sprang out of bed and took out some parchment, a vial of ink and a quill. He wetted his quill and stared at the parchment.  Words were not his greatest strength. After staring at the damned scrap for a lifetime, Jon scribbled the first thing that came to his mind.

 

_Dear Sansa,_

_In my dreams I kiss your sweet, wet cunt and make love to you all day long._

_Jon_

 

Jon sat back in his seat as his eyes raked over the words he had committed to paper.  A laugh rattled his entire being as he confronted the truth of it. This was how far he had fallen. He imagined a lady – Sansa at that – reading the note. He would be cast out of Winterfell before supper.

Folding the parchment and setting it aside, he hiccupped the last of his laughter and settled down to write in all seriousness:

 

_Dear Sansa,_

_My behavior this morning was inexcusable. I hope my mistake doesn’t cause you too much trouble in mending the Prince’s sleeve._

_The thing is, I feel unsure of how to conduct myself when I’m around you and I would like it very much if we could go back to being amicable as we had been before I left for the Neck._

_Yours truly,_

_Jon_

 

Satisfied, he folded the letter to give to Sansa.

The words of his first letter still rang in his ears. He gave into images they conjured and crept onto his bed to find his release. He lay in bed half dressed in daze as the afternoon hours passed. The break from daily routine made everything seem like a dream.

Through his semi-conscious state, he thought he heard excited voices outside his door. It sounded like Rickon. Doing up his laces, still groggy from his day-dreams and slumber, he grabbed the letter off his desk and stumbled out into the corridor where Rickon was playing hopscotch with some of his friends.

“Rickon, I’ve got a lordly task for you.”

The little boy beamed as he sprinted to him. Jon handed him the letter.

“Can you give this to Sansa? It’s a matter of the utmost importance.”

“Yes, Jon.”

“That’s a good lad, now.” Jon kissed his forehead. “Now, go on give it to her. Only to Sansa, you hear?”

“Mmhmm.”

He ran off with his friends in tow.

Jon returned to his chambers and put his jerkin back on. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. He looked strange without his boy’s beard. But his hair was tamed and Sansa would like that. Perhaps she would wish him goodnight tonight. Perhaps she would do so in front of Joffrey. Prick.

His face darkened as something dreadful nudged at him.

Unlikely, he told himself.

Striding over to his desk he picked up the discarded letter.

“Rickon,” he whimpered.

Flying out to the corridor he cried, “Rickon!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we hear a collective, "Oh, Jon"?
> 
> To my lovely readers, loving all the wonderful comments. Keep 'em coming! I read all of them. And like always, thank you for reading <3


	5. Confrontation

Sansa was exhausted when she returned to her chambers, in both body and spirit. Fair as Joffrey was to look upon, she could not look past his cruel words to Jon and his petulance towards Robb. But she had persevered, sharing every wondrous and mundane detail of the castle with him until he had had enough.

It was well into the afternoon and the sun was beginning to redden. She loosened her bodice and lay down with a sigh. There was still dinner to be had at the banquet hall. More pretenses of politeness to be made in front of the Prince when all she wanted was to have a laugh with the rest of the younger Starks. Perhaps even get close to Jon.

Her eyes were drifting shut when her handmaid clamored in to help her get dressed for dinner.

“You’ll be looking so lovely that the Prince’ll have no choice but to ask for your hand in marriage,” the girl squealed. “Oh but isn’t he so handsome to look upon with his golden hair? We must do you hair up like we’ve been practicing. Oh, he’ll be so impressed. It’ll be like he’s never left King’s Landing.”

Sansa placed a pillow on her face and groaned into it.

“Come on. Up, up. Can’t be wasting time now, my Lady.”

She slid off the bed and trudged over to the window as the girl took out a golden dress from her wardrobe and laid it out for her on the bed. Sansa had specially picked out the material for the dress to find favor with the Queen.

She took off her morning dress and sat down at her dressing table so the girl could braid her hair. She was about to pin two braids up on the crown of her head when Sansa changed her mind. She wanted to leave her hair down. So the girl wetted the tip of her long her with some oil and brush it smooth so it flowed down her back in gentle waves.

Once the dress was on her form, Sansa spent a long while looking at her reflection in the mirror. She looked as bright as the sun, yet not at all like herself. Despite her handmaid’s affirmations on how beautiful she looked, she took the dress off and looked through her wardrobe.

Her eyes fell on a black gown with silver trimmings. It was muted and unceremonious but it oddly reminded her of _him._ Sansa’s breath caught remembering the way his eyes raked her wet figure earlier that morning. Had she been given the choice, she would have gone to dinner in nothing but her small clothes just to have him look at her that way again. She ordered her handmaid to get her a decanter of mead before she pulled the black gown on.

The Brothers in Black. Is that not what the Night’s Watch were called? An oath that forbid them from taking a wife or having a family. Stiff. Restrictive. Doleful. Like the dress she had on. She did not feel beautiful in this one either. She undid its laces and let it fall in a pool on the floor.

She finished an entire goblet of mead in one gulp when her handmaid returned. Her cheeks turned a rosy pink and her body felt hot all over. Sifting through the countless dresses in her wardrobe, she finally pulled out an emerald green dress that had been too big for her when her Aunt Lyssa first sent it to her from the Vale. She had all but forgotten it.

It was an uncommon dress with a skirt made of overlapping panels. Its boat-neck was high in the front but quite low to the back, and the sleeves, though long, were slit high up their lengths so they would fall off the arms. It was not quite as revealing as what was worn in places like Essos but she herself had never worn such a dress.

The material clung to her like a glove, accentuating every rise and dip of her body. The paneling of the dress’ skirt, it became apparent, was not all sewn together. Too long a stride in the wrong direction would expose the porcelain expanse of her legs.

Sansa hesitated. Her father would not approve. And her mother would be livid. But when she looked up at her face, her eyes seemed a brighter blue than they usually were against the emerald of the dress. In all truth, she didn’t much care what they thought. She just wanted to see what Jon would think when he saw her in it. She just wanted to make him forget any Crannog girl he may have met at the Neck. She so desperately wanted to bury herself in his arms.

Taming a few stray strands of hair with pins, she gave herself one last look before heading down to the kitchens to see if her mother needed any help. Catelyn didn’t even notice her daughter enter the courtyard adjoining the kitchens, much less what she was wearing. She was too busy scolding Bran for scaling the castle’s walls again.

A gaggle of children came bounding into the courtyard with Rickon at the fore. He looked up at his sister one long moment, as though making sure it was her in that strange dress, before flashing her a cherubic smile.

“I’ve been given a lordly task, Sansa.”

“Oh really?”

“Mmhmm.” He held up a folded piece of parchment. “For you.”

“Thank you, Rickon. I think Old Nan might have some cakes for you and your friends. But don’t go taking more than one each, you hear?”

Rickon and his friends squealed before bursting into the kitchen. Laughing, Sansa unfolded the letter. Her laughter caught in her throat. The words swam before her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she was reading correctly but whatever was on that piece of paper, she knew she should not have been reading it with her mother so close. Tucking it away under one of the panels of her dress she briskly walked away to the first dark alcove she came upon.

No, there was no mistaking what was written on the parchment. She could not stop herself from trembling. What was he thinking committing such language to paper? What would have become to the both of them if Rickon had given it to her mother?

She was terrified but also elated. Above everything else, she was elated that she wasn’t alone in her want.

But her mind would not let her savor the moment. She knew Jon. He would never have meant to send such a bold letter. What if she was never meant to read it? Or worse, what if it was meant to be a horrible joke? Surely, Jon would never be so vile or cruel.

Well whatever he meant by it, she wasn’t going to find out crouched in an alcove. She decided to wait by the entrance into the family quarters where, if he was a clever boy, he would present himself to offer an explanation before dinner.

She waited behind the closed door with bated breath, entertaining the thought that it was all just a dream. But she felt the edge of the folded letter under the folds of her dress. She had read the words. There was no denying it.

She jumped at the sound of the door opening and spun around to lay eyes upon Jon’s distraught face. He was in his morning clothes, clean shaven and hair hurriedly combed back. His fearful eyes resembled a child’s when he’s anticipating the sting of a stick on his arse. It made Sansa stand taller, push her chest out and chin up.

He gulped as he took in the sight of her. “Sansa.”

His voice was steady, eyes unflinching. He was going to take whatever rebuke she had to give him like a man and accept its consequences.

 “I received your letter,” Sansa said plainly, without fanfare. She was unreadable.

“It wasn’t the version you were meant to read.”

“Mother was there when Rickon gave it to me.”

Jon inhaled sharply.

“She didn’t read it of course.”

Sansa lowered her eyes to the floor. Jon wanted to sigh in relief, laugh even, but he couldn’t. Why wasn’t she saying anything? Should he say something? Of course! He should have been apologizing for his language and this morning. But he didn’t know how. He simply kept looking at her.

With a sigh she turned away abruptly and left, leaving an unfinished thought hanging in the air. Jon followed her without a moment’s hesitance. If she doesn’t wish to speak, he thought, she can turn me away. He followed her into a study Sansa often used when her own solar was being cleaned. It let in a red and warm stream of sunlight in the afternoons, making it a comfortable place to read.

He expected this was where he was to be reprimanded. It would not do for a lady to scream in the hallways. So, he closed the door into the study and bolted it for good measure.

“What was in the version I was meant to read?”

Jon thought he heard a faint tremor in the word, ‘meant’.

“It was more proper. Less…”

“…vivid?”

Sansa could not look Jon in the eyes. She wished to tell him everything, every base thought of her own that had robbed her of sleep but she simply could not find the courage to reveal herself to him. Jon was Jon. He would not think ill of her but nothing had ever prepared her for this.

“It’s been this way since I learned the truth. About who you really are.” Her voice quivered. She felt his doting eyes burning into her. “And I was so angry when you left but I thought – I thought maybe it was a good thing. That maybe I would stop thinking the things I thought. But…”

She looked up at him. He was farther away than he had been because she backed away from him. He was listening intently but she couldn’t say what he was thinking. Was he amused by her or did he pity her?

“You know don’t you?” she implored. Don’t make me beg, please. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

Jon ached for her, seeing how she struggled. His chest all but collapsed into itself when he saw mist forming in her eyes. “Why are you crying?”

A sob cracked through Sansa’s proud and supine exterior. Her words were a desperate plea rather than a question. “Don’t you know?”

Jon had had enough. The frustrations of the past year reached their tipping point and finally spilled over, losing him any if not all his self-control. He closed the distance between them, grabbed her by the waist and pressed his lips to hers.

Taken by surprise, Sansa stiffened at first but her hands found his shoulders and she steadied her buckling knees, kissing him back. It was chaste and sweet. She pressed her breasts into his sturdy chest, which was harder than she had ever imagined, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, wishing to lose herself in his different but astoundingly pleasant scent.

They drew away for breath and looked at one another. A small but joyous smile lit up Sansa’s face. She sighed sweetly and closed her eyes again, silently asking him to kiss her again. A chuckle of disbelieve left Jon’s lips before he acquiesced. He was gentle in his kisses. Repetitive and soft, never lingering too long.

It was Sansa who held his head in place when she wanted more. She pressed her tongue to his lips. He opened them with a guttural sigh while backing her into the bookshelf behind her to find some balance. He couldn’t have found it sooner for his tongue on Sansa’s elicited a wanton moan from her that shot a lightning bolt down to his cock.

Jon needed to feel all of her, be inside of her, get closer any way possible. His hands roamed her body over her silken gown. His caresses to the small of her back sent shivers through her and more contented gasps tumbling from her mouth. Bolting her to the bookshelf he grazed his teeth down her jaw to the crook of her neck where he clamped them into her skin. Hands sliding higher, his fingertips touched the bare skin of her back. Letting out a primal growl as he suckled on her earlobe, he tugged the flimsy sleeves of her dress down, bearing the swollen tops of her teats, squeezed tight by her bodice.

He was stumped by the sight of them. Pulling away he looked at Sansa, pinned against the bookshelf, her breaths labored and a glow of pure ecstasy shone on her face. She locked eyes with him and guided his hands to her breasts, holding them there, entreating him to touch and squeeze. Pulling him to her she lazily kissed him again before resting her forehead on his.

“Jon?”

“Sansa?”

“The letter.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to do it.” She stroked his face as he tried to make sense of her. “I want you to kiss me there.”

Jon looked at her in disbelief. She leaned in to bite his lower lip. He responded by shoving her back against the bookshelf. His eyes had darkened and his jaw was set in a hard line. He held her gaze captive as he grabbed hold of her leg through the partings in her dress’s skirt and slid his hand up until they found her smallclothes.

Sansa splayed her arms across the bookshelf and arched her back to make it easier for him to remove the garment.  Jon’s gaze was unrelenting. Sansa savored the feel of his calloused hands sliding up the inside of her thighs but it was Jon’s ever-assuring, yet simultaneously threatening stare that made her hold onto the shelf’s shingle to keep herself from falling.

She felt his fingers ghost over the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs. Every pass over it became more pronounced until he finally pressed them into her flesh, collecting her juices along the way. Jon let out a low growl like one of the direpups. He spread her folds and lavished his fingers in her juices. From the swell of his chest, Sansa could tell he had forgotten to breath.

She pulled a few panels of her dress up, fully exposing herself to him. Stroking the coarse hair between her legs, he leaned in to kiss it, finally closing his eyes and submitting himself to his fate. He inhaled deeply, taking in her scent. He had never smelled anything like it. Yet, barely acquainted, he knew it would etch itself into his memory until the end of his days.

He felt Sansa’s fingers snake under his face, reaching further down, and parting her mound to reveal a pink and erect nub. Her other hand was combing through his hair. He looked up at her to see if he understood correctly. She answered with a lick to her lip. With a mischievous glint his eye, he leaned in and swiped his tongue over the nub. What Sansa uttered in response sounded like something between a gasp and sob.

Jon got to work. He kissed it, swirled circles around it, and flicked and nibbled on it, finding the rhythms that made Sansa cry out in anguished ecstasy. Dollops of her juices dropped on to his hands as his fingers traced her slit. He desperately wanted to push a finger inside but he wasn’t sure if such a thing was done. Then again, he never knew kissing a lady’s cunt could bring her so much pleasure and get him so aroused.

Sansa gyrated over Jon’s mouth, moaning senselessly into the arm holding on to the shelf. Jon reached around and grabbed her by the arse to hold her still. He quickened his pace and sucked until Sansa let out a feral cry. Her body stiffened for a moment before a feverish shiver swept through her. She grew limp and slumped to the floor in front of him.

She looked as though she had just woken from a sweet dream. Touching Jon’s damp chin, she smiled sheepishly and bent over to kiss him. She licked off all her juices from his chin and smacked her lips before plunging her tongue into his mouth. Soon her hands were travelling down his torso, underneath his jerkin to the laces of his breeches.  

Jon enveloped her in his arms and guided her down onto the floor. Sansa undid his laces and buried her hand in his breeches, stroking his length.

“Is it always this hard?” she hummed.

Jon chuckled. “Gods no. I’d die.”

She pulled his breeches down to his knees and stroked his bottom, biting her lips at the feel of how firm it was.

Jon kissed down her neck to the tops of her teats as she hummed. She was so happy she would have sung but she was not in possession of the clarity of mind. As before, she moved the panels of her dress out of the way, making room for Jon to settle himself between her legs.

He breached her too suddenly. It stung but it was not horridly painful. Jon sensed something was amiss immediately. He stilled and held his breath, burying his head in her neck, afraid he hurt her. He couldn’t stand the idea of hurting her.

“Jon,” Sansa breathed as if she had the world sitting atop her chest.

Jon looked up and faced the beautiful girl lying underneath him. “Sansa.”

“I love you.”

Three words. So simple. Yet their effects so profound. Jon’s eyes burned and his chest felt like it was being branded by an iron smith. His reply was a near inaudible rasp. “I love you.”

He rested his forehead on hers. She hitched her leg up, stroking the back of his leg with her toes, accommodating his cock inside her, and then she moved. He felt like the life had left his body and he was watching them from above. Two bodies coming together in perhaps the most sacred of unions.

He diligently edged in and out. Excruciatingly slow. His forearms held his weight off of Sansa and his brow dampened from his restraint.

“Mmm Jon,” Sansa moaned, touching his cheek to get him to look at her. Their joining still stung her but she sensed it would go away.  “Harder, Jon.”

Jon kissed her. He pulled all the way out and slammed himself into her.

“ _Unh!_ ”

“Like that, Sansa?”

“Yes Jon,” Sansa whimpered. “Just like that…Oh Jon!”

He rammed her with confident, unhurried strokes. “Here - _hngh_ – I was thinking that –“

“ _Anh—_ “

“—that you were – _mmph_ – a frail maiden.”

Sansa pulled him close. She was out of breath and close to fainting. “I was a – _unh_ – a mai – _unh_ – den, bu- _unh_ – _unh -_ “

A ball of fire burst in the pit of her stomach. Her walls clamped around Jon’s cock, searing it with her heat. She lay convulsing, lost in a heavenly trance.

Jon pulled out and sat back on his knees. He pushed the dress’ fabric off her leg and stroked the inside of her thigh. Sansa lay riding out her high before him. He frantically stroked himself and came with a stuttered cry, spilling his seed on her thigh.

Sansa smiled sated. She touched his sticky seed and held her fingers up to the light. “It’s the same as mine.”

Jon kissed her knee and leaned back against the leg of a reading table.

Outside the sky had become reddish-mauve.

“Best get going,” he said with a sigh. “Your mother will be looking for you.”

Sansa reached for his hand and entwined their fingers. “Tell me you’ll have me again.”

He bent down and kissed her brow. “Reckon I’ll go mad if I don’t.”

***

The banquet was already afoot when they arrived at the banquet hall. They had done their best to fix their appearances. It was easier for Jon of course. Sansa’s dress was crushed and her hair, which she had so calculatingly left down, was tangled. Her relatively revealing neckline also displayed a rather prominent bite mark on the crook of her neck. Jon had swept some hair over the mark to hide it but she had to be careful lest she brush it off by accident.

Catelyn, who accompanied Ned in greeting their guests at the entrance, met her daughter with pursed lips.

“Sansa, this behavior is inexcusable. You were supposed to be here to greet the Lords and Ladies an hour ago. Where have you been?”

“Forgive me, Mother. I took Lady out for a walk and lost track of time. Jon was the one who reminded me of the time.”

Catelyn shot Jon a cold glare that made him look at the ground.

Ned mournfully beheld Jon before offering Sansa a smile. “You’re lovelier than the sun on a spring day, Sansa.”

“Thank you, father,” she said gaily. She proceeded inside before realizing Jon wasn’t with her.

He still stood in the archway.

“Jon? Aren’t you coming?”

Jon glanced at Catelyn’s reproachful expression and shook his head. “Enjoy the banquet, Lady Sansa.”

He bowed to Catelyn who could not bring herself to look at the boy’s heartbroken face for fear she might give in to her guilt, and he headed to the training yard. There would be no feast for him.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uh...I hope you enjoyed reading that as much as I enjoyed writing it. Also can I just say that your comments are a riot and I love reading them. Definitely leave me more because that's how I get my highs. You're all wonderful and thank you for reading!


	6. The Castle Sleeps

Servants pushed past Jon, almost trampling him as they lugged roasted boar still on their skewers and trays of ale to the banquet hall. He had come to the kitchens looking for food but found the tumblers of mead more appetizing. “Oh cheer up, boy,” the servants chastised, shoving him here and there to get to their chores, “you’ll make the food rot with that pitiful look on yer babe’s face.”

He downed two tumblers before heading out to the training yard where he mercilessly whacked the wooden pell with his sword. He wished to be happy. Gods knew he should have been with what he and Sansa had forged in the study just hours before. And she had asked him to take her again. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow.

She loved him, she’d said. And he loved her. Gods, he loved her. He never wanted to be parted from her. But here he was alone, all by himself while the girl he wanted to possess with his entire being was being courted by the royal prick Joffrey and eyed by every other Northern lad of noble blood. Theon bloody Greyjoy had greater chances of being closer to her than he did.

But _he_ was the one who had taken her maidenhead. _He_ was the one who she professed her love to. _He_ deserved to be in her company now, to laugh with her and hold hands with her. Just have the comforting knowledge of her close proximity to him.

He had known. He had always known this was what would happen if he were to admit his feelings for Sansa. But knowing never prepared him for the pain he felt now. It was like all those times he had been excluded from the Stark family’s cheer because of his being a Snow, only now it was tenfold more painful. And he didn’t know how to make it stop hurting.

He brought his sword down onto the pell with all his might. Again and again and again as if doing so would beat the hurt out of him.

“Is he dead yet?” A man called from behind.

Jon spun around to find a familiar face in black dismounting from his horse. “Uncle Benjen!”

His face lit up with a smile and he let out a sigh of relief in seeing a friendly face.

 “I rode all day. Couldn’t leave you alone with the Lannisters could I?” Having embraced the boy, Benjen Stark looked at Jon. “You’re bigger than I last saw you. Why aren’t you at the feast with the others?”

Jon looked at his Uncle with a look that was enough to say it all. “Lady Stark didn’t want to insult the royals by sitting a bastard in their midst.”

“Well they’re always welcome at the Wall. No bastard was ever refused a seat there.”

“Then take me with you when you go back.” Jon said. He’d go anywhere if it meant getting away from the storm of jealousy, loneliness and humiliation raging inside him.

“Jon…”

Jon was beyond thinking. “Father will let me if you ask him. I know he will.”

His weather worn Uncle smiled at him affectionately. “The Wall isn’t going anywhere. You don’t know what you’d be giving up. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons.”

“I don’t care about fathering sons. I won’t bring another babe into this world bearing the name Snow.”

“You might if you know what it meant.”

Jon’s mind wandered to Sansa – her sated face smiling up at him in the study. They would never have a family of their own. So what did it matter?

Uncle Benjen shook his head and headed to the entrance. “Better get inside. See if your father needs saving.”

Jon huffed as he watched Uncle Benjen disappear behind the door. He felt betrayed by everyone. Lied to his entire life. Treated like a gutter rat. He wished to lash out at everyone, call them a slew of dirty names and shout the truth from roof tops. He was the son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, not Ned Stark’s bastard. If that marked him for death, then so be it. He would hand King Robert the killing hammer himself. He was in love with Sansa Stark. If that meant Lady Catelyn stabbing him through the heart with a dagger, then so be it.

But he didn’t shout. He simply picked his sword up again and brandished it at the pell again and again and again.

***

Attendants in the banquet hall showed no signs of tiring. Sansa wished they would leave. She desperately wanted to be with Jon. Not to couple but to simply be with him. They had shared such a momentous act in the study that her heart ached to be parted from him. It was their beautiful secret and she wished to bask in it with him, smiling to her heart’s content, seeing him smile and touching him as she pleased.

She entertained the guests with poise and charm, asking if they had eaten and accepting to dance with some of the young lords and their brothers. She danced with a bashful Theon and made him blush by commending his improved dancing. Robb and Arya swooped in to her rescue on several occasions when they saw Joffrey making up his mind to ask her to dance. He retired early, thankfully, and Sansa thought it safe to go to the head table to sit with her mother and the Queen.

She gave her mother a cold look before offering a warm smile to Cersei. Tomorrow, she would address how she treated Jon.

“What a lovely girl you are,” Cersei remarked tersely. Sansa felt uncomfortably exposed under her shrewd gaze. “She’s your eldest?” she asked Catelyn.

Catelyn’s lips turned up in a tight smile. “Daughter, yes. Sansa.”

“Your Grace,” Sansa said with a curtsy.

“So you’ll be the one coming back to King’s Landing with your father? You know Robert is so intent on joining our two houses.”

Sansa was speechless.

Catelyn hid the pang of worry in her eyes and gaily said, “Sansa is a girl of modest ambition. The duties of a queen would be much too overwhelming for her.”

Cersei didn’t seem to be listening to her. Her eyes were firmly planted on Sansa’s face, studying her. “You have a light about you. Tell me dear, have you ever lain with a man?”

“Your Grace,” Catelyn said sharply, “Sansa is a Lady of House Stark.”

“I’m sure you speak of the northern air, Your Grace,” Sansa interjected with a steely voice, “ It can seem harsh to foreigners but you’ll find it invigorates the senses and brings a certain light to us all.”

Smirking, Cersei picked up her goblet and emptied it. “You’ve taught your daughter well, Lady Stark.”

A resounding crack drew their attention away from the head table. Robb was dragging a kicking Arya out of the banquet hall.

“Arya’s gotten herself into trouble again,” Catelyn sighed. “Sansa, will you see to her?”

“Yes mother.”

She curtsied to Cersei again hurried out of the banquet hall.

***

Jon awoke to the feel of nimble and soft caresses to his face. If he had ever known the loving touch of a mother, he would have mistaken it for such.

He had trudged up to his bed chambers in drunken anger, kicked off his boots and pulled off his jerkin before crashing into bed and losing all consciousness. His chamber was lit by a single candle and his vision a blur, but even then he could tell it was Sansa who looked upon him.

“Sansa?” His voice was groggy. “What are you doing here? What time is it?”

He tried to sit up but his head spun and he dropped back onto his pillows with a hiss.

“Ssh ssh ssh,” Sansa cooed. “It’s late and the castle sleeps.”

Jon tried to gauge his eyes out to stop his headache.

“You haven’t had a thing to eat tonight, have you?” Sansa asked softly, brushing her knuckles against his cheek. “Here, sit up and have this.”

Jon followed her hands as she pulled out a lemon cake she had wrapped in one of her pretty handkerchiefs. He raised an eyebrow at her in question.

“It was going to be my ruse in case Mother came into my chambers. I was going to tell her I went down to the kitchens to have some lemon cake. Go on, you’ll feel better once you’ve eaten. I would’ve brought some pork had I known.”

“Thank you, Sansa,” Jon mumbled, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up beside her. He swallowed the cake in three large bites and blinked to reorient himself.

Sansa rested her head on his shoulder and splayed a hand on his chest. She slipped her fingers through the laces below his tunic’s collar and played with the peppering of soft hair on his chest. Jon instinctively wrapped his arm around her and rested his head on hers.

“I needed to see you,” Sansa hummed, her words just above a whisper. “Mother was wrong to keep you from the banquet hall. Nobody would’ve cared. I’m going to speak to her in the morning.”

“No, the world doesn’t know what you know. And Lady Stark isn’t entirely wrong. You remember what Joffrey said. It’s insulting to have a bastard amidst nobles.”

Sansa let out a languorous breath of resignation.

“I’ll be nothing but a Snow for the rest of my life,” Jon continued. “The world will always know me to be your half-brother.”

Sansa looked at him, panicked. “Jon…”

“No, Sansa. I told you I’d have you again, and Gods I will if you’ll have me but you have to know there’s nothing beyond this. I’ll never be free to kiss you under the open sky and claim you as mine for all to see. I’ll never be able to marry you under a Weirwood tree and I’ll never be able to give you babes. You’ll have my love but duty commands you marry someone else. A lord of father’s choosing or even the prince.”

Cersei’s words about joining their families rang in her ears. “Hush!” Her voice was calm but her face distraught.

“There’ll be nothing but blood and fire left of us and everything we love if we keep on this path. We’ll be no different from my parents.”

“Your mother and father loved one another.”

“Aye, and what good came of it? They plunged the entire realm into war.”

Sansa cupped his face. “They gave me you.”

Jon wanted to shake his head but Sansa held it still and pressed her lips to his.

“I’ve never felt as lonely as I did this past night,” Sansa admitted after a pause. She parted his legs and stood in between them. Jon gulped as her fingers threaded through the laces of her house coat. “You must think it so silly. I am the eldest daughter of House Stark. I have been given every happiness one can ask for.”

Jon furrowed his eyebrows and tried to say something but his mouth was sealed shut and his vision narrowed around her slender fingers pulling on her laces one by one.

“And I wondered, ‘Is this how Jon’s felt all his life, longing for love?’ And it pained me to think of you hurting so much all your life when I could hardly bare it for a few hours.”

She had undone all the laces down to her waist. The thick fabric still sat on her body undisturbed. Reaching for his fisted hands, she guided them through the material and place them on her ribs. She wasn’t wearing a shift underneath.

“Seven Hells,” Jon hissed.

Sansa braced herself on his shoulders and arched her back, encouraging him to touch. He splayed his fingers over her velveteen skin and fit the breadth of her ribs in his palms.

“You’re so small,” he breathed heavily. His thumb grazed the underside of her breast. It was the softest thing he’d ever touched in his life.

Sansa drew closer and combed her fingers through his hair. “But not weak. I’m of the North – built to bear true Northern sons.”

Jon’s fingers travelled higher until they covered her breasts. His breath hitched at the feel of them. He squeezed and she pulled his hair in approval. He pushed the fabric of her housecoat off her shoulders and admired the milky white teats presented to him. Her nipples pebbled and hardened when he passed his thumbs over them. Sansa pulled his head closer and lifted her chest just enough so that her pert nipple brushed against his mouth. He took it in and suckled, letting go of every intelligent thought his mind had ever conjured.

Sansa watched him as he lost himself, eyes shut and hands gently keeping her in place by the waist. She felt the muscles in his shoulders and back loosen under the hand that wasn’t cradling his head to her teat. The melody of a lullaby sweetly spilled from her lips as she reached around and undid the last tie of her housecoat, pushed it down her hips and kicked it aside.

Kissing the top of her breast, Jon rested his head in the valley of her bosom and tightened his hold around her waist. He reveled in the feel of her kisses on top of his head and her thumb tracing the outline of his ears and wished he could feel this way forever. If death were to come to him, he would have it come now in the warmth of his lover’s embrace and under the shade of her affection. For the first time in his life, he felt wanted and whole.

He craned his neck up to kiss her deeply. When they parted the solemn look in his eyes had returned.

“I don’t know what the morrow will bring,” Sansa said, teary fire in her eyes, “but we have today. This night when the castle sleeps so soundly. Jon, we must live.”

“Aye,” he croaked, his own determination mirroring hers, “Aye. Come here.”

He attacked her lips and firmly drew her to him by the arse. A rough hand slid down her thigh, the inside of which was coated with her juices from pressing her legs together as she serenaded him. He pulled it over his leg on the bed, exposing her heated center to the cool air collecting the scent of their arousal and scattering it around the room.

His tongue ravaged hers as his thumb drew circles on her nub and his fingers traced the opening of her cunt and pushed into it.

Sansa gasped and pulled away. Jon stiffened, his hands frozen in the air.

“What have I done?”

Sansa shook her head. Her arousal had brought a glow to her face that illuminated her features and darkened her eyes at the same time. “I’d like to see you Jon. All of you.”

Jon rose from the bed and stalked towards her, unlacing his breeches. Sansa thought she heard a snarl from the back of his throat. He was less human and more wolf. His eyes were their usual black but she knew he only saw red like Ghost. She dodged his advance and returned to the bed.

He shoved his breeches down and kicked them off. His tunic hit the middle of his thighs, draping over but not quite concealing the prominent point of his cock. Then, as only men seem to be able to, he reached behind his shoulders and pulled his tunic over his head.

On her stomach on the bed with her legs wagging up in the air, Sansa involuntarily rubbed up against the bed linens as she beheld his naked form. Sturdy and unyielding in his stance, he looked to be cut from a piece of marble, only marble never had such a perverse effect on Sansa. Her eyes followed the trail of course black hair from his navel to the juncture between his legs where his manhood arched attentively in her direction. Never in her wildest dreams could she could have imagined that something so alarming could fit inside her. And not just fit inside her but bring her immense pleasure.

Jon’s hand, already slick with Sansa’s juices, stroked his cock lazily. He looked at her hungrily. “Is the Lady satisfied with the beast’s breeding?”

Moaning, Sansa stretched and turned to her side. “I believe I’d like to inspect further.” She motioned for him to turn.

Jon obliged. The past night’s sorrows evaded him for this one moment and he smiled. He actually smiled, all the way up to his eyes, as he bore his arse to Sansa.

“I wonder…” Sansa said tapping her chin, “...the beast doesn’t look like it’s been broken in. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were fooling me into buying an untamed stallion.”

“Then you’ll have to ride him yourself to make sure, won’t you?”

Sansa blushed and beckoned him to her. “I’d like that very much.”

She pulled him onto the narrow bed and settled him on his back, pinching and kissing and nibbling him all over.  She watched the changes in his breaths as she took him in his hand, putting her face close to his but not close enough for him to be able to kiss her.

When his eyes drifted shut and silent pleas formed on his lips, she climbed on top of him and burst out laughing. She couldn’t contain it, no matter how hard she tried. Not immune to her radiance, Jon joined in.

“It’s not good for a lad’s pride, you know,” he chided. His hands stroked up and down her thighs. “Laughing at him when he’s naked as his name day.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” Sansa giggled, her face red, “It’s just that – I’ve not heard of coming together like this.”

Jon nudged her to move back a little and snaked his hand behind her arse to grab hold of his cock. “Well, you know they always say that if the cog fits in the –“

“ _Unh!_ ”

“There,” Jon growled. His breaths were coming out in quick spurts. “That’s not so bad now is it?”

“Jon,” Sansa moaned. Her mouth hung open in astonishment. He was buried so deep within her. Everything around her became a blur. She was impaled through to the hilt and she would gladly accept sweet death if it meant being stabbed over and over.

Reaching for Jon’s hands, she entwined their fingers for leverage. She rocked her hips against him, precisely and gently, as if they were dancing, keeping in time with the music, prolonging every moment together and wishing the song would never end. Brushing his knuckles against her lips, she kissed his fingers and took the middle one into her mouth. She flicked her tongue around it with a ‘pop’ and brought it down to her nipple to trace it wet.

Jon pinched it, earning a frantic cry from her. She braced her hands on his chest and slid on and off of him, her breasts bouncing in time with the slaps of her squelching thighs hitting his hips.

“ _Uhnh_ Jon,” Sansa panted hurriedly, “Am I wicked Jon? So wicked – _hunh_ \- for dreaming of this all my waking hours?”

Groaning nonsensically, Jon grabbed her arse and pushed into her hard, setting off an explosion in the pits of her stomach. “Never.”

As she succumbed to the shocks of her peak, he worked her hips on him as if she were a weightless ragdoll. He sat up and held her flush against him, swallowing her sweet cries and inhaling her breaths. When he felt his own peak approach he lay her down and, much to her dismay, pulled out of her. His hands were a blur as they swiped at his cock. Sansa’s loving touch to his arm sent him over the edge and he spilled himself all over her bare stomach.

He kneeled over her panting and submitted himself to her when she stretched her arms out to him. They kissed tenderly. Sansa poured every dream she had of princes and gallant knights, every hope of a happy end of a song into hers and Jon basked in the feeling of being loved and cherished. They beamed at one another when they parted. There was no pretense. No need to hide. This was theirs. This was happiness.

Sansa absentmindedly drew shapes in his cum as sleep began to take hold of them. She got up and headed to the wash basin.

Jon sat up. “Here, let me get you a cloth.”

“No, it’s fine. I need to use the chamber pot as well.” She looked over her shoulder before going behind the screen. “Will you muffle your ears?”

“Sansa, I just had my cock inside you.”

Sansa stuck her tongue out at him and disappeared behind the screen. She returned clean and lay down with her back to Jon. Pulling the bed furs over them, Jon enclosed her in his arm. It wasn’t long before he started fondling her breasts, making her giggle.

“It’s easy for you to laugh,” Jon chuckled into her hair, “you can touch them whenever you like.”

“Mmm.” Sansa covered his inquisitive hand with hers. “Jon?”

“Sansa.” His voice was growing heavy with sleep.

“I’m going to brew some moon tea tomorrow. So that you can finish inside me. Would you like that?”

“I’d like that very much. But I thought only maesters knew how to brew it.”

“Mmm, but I do mind my lessons Jon Snow. I think I can get all the ingredients from the kitchen’s store but we may not have any pennyroyal. Can you get me some?”

“If it means cumming inside you, I’ll buy you the merchant’s entire stock.”

“Ssh,” Sansa giggled. “Go to sleep.”

“Sansa?”

“Hmm?”

“What if your mother finds your chambers empty?”

“I’ll tell her I went to the kitchens for lemon cake.”

“You think she’ll believe you?”

Sansa’s mind returned to her Mother’s cold stance towards Jon at the banquet. “Mother is as intent in seeing the best in her children as she is in seeing the worst in you.”

And just like that the shell of happiness they had hidden themselves away in cracked and the truth of the world came flooding back to them. They lay in bed in contemplative silence until fatigue pulled them into a fitful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers! Thank you for reading and leaving amazing comments. I had a bit of a rough week and your love really cheered me up. Also, how great are those new shots of Jon and Sansa from the season 7 promo?
> 
> I'm having family over for the next couple of weeks so it's going to be really difficult to write smut with toddlers and nosy aunts hovering. Until next time, adieu!


	7. The Natural and Unnatural

Sansa rose with the song of the first birds before daybreak. Her body and Jon’s had fused together with sweat from their nightlong entanglement. Jon did not stir as she pried his heavy arm off her and ghosted her fingers over stray locks of hair falling over his face.

He did not look a man of seven and ten. In fact, he looked no older than Rickon right then as he slept. It was always said that, of all four of Ned Stark’s ‘sons’, Jon looked the most like him and they were not wrong. Yes, Jon did bear a striking resemblance to him, and so it wouldn’t be far-fetched to think he bore the promise of the same weather-worn ruggedness of her Lord father. For now, with his beard shorn, his closed eyes flickering with sweet dreams, and lips curving out in a pout, he was just her Jon.

She left him with a kiss to the cheek and returned to her chambers unnoticed. There, she slept for another hour before getting dressed and heading out. As always, she found Jon waiting for her with Lady and Ghost on the way to the Godswood.

They walked shoulder to shoulder, desperately longing to hold hands. Once they stepped foot in the Godswood, Sansa abandoned all pretense and threaded her arm through Jon’s.

“Sansa,” Jon admonished, trying to pry his arm free. “We’ll be seen.”

“No we won’t,” Sansa contentedly sighed, resting her head on his shoulder. She closed her eyes. “The Gods will watch over us.”

Jon’s response was wry: “You misplace your convictions.”

“Jon, look at me.” They had stopped walking. Sansa pressed her hand to his cheek. “Do you believe our love for one another to be wrong?”

“If we do not mind ourselves we’ll be caught.”

“No, forget them. Forget everyone. Do _you_ in your heart’s heart believe our love to be a sin?”

Jon’s mouth twisted as a barrage of conflicting arguments warred in the depths of his mind. Closing his eyes, he remembered that first night he had taken himself in hand with Sansa’s touch still fresh on his skin. Had he not declared his fearlessness to the Gods? So long as his improper thoughts stayed within the confines of his chambers, they were his own and he would not apologize for them.

But now, he had laid claim to her body and her heart. The acts he had committed were no longer only his own. It would bring shame upon Sansa and on him. He knew he could bear it. It was, after all, all he had ever known. But Sansa? He could not live knowing he brought shame upon her.

“You know what I feel?” Sansa whispered. She had drawn his face to hers so their noses touched. “You know, they always prepare maidens for their wedding night. They say it’s frightening and that it will hurt and that women don’t care much for the act itself. But lying with you, joining our bodies…Jon—”

Jon raised his glistening eyes to look into hers. His desperation for reprieve from worry and guilt needed no words. She saw it all in a glance.

“I came to you last night and I will go on coming to you night after night. Do you know why, Jon? It’s not because I find some paltry thrill in defying mother or soiling my maidenhead. It’s because it seems the most natural thing in the world. Don’t you see? Our love was forged by the Gods themselves.”  She blushed at her own words. “You think my words the notions of a silly girl, but that is the only explanation I can think of. Why else would we choose each other, Jon? Why? I can’t speak for the rest of the castle but I have faith we can be our true selves in the Godswood. We are blessed Jon. At least here we are.”

Tears spilled from Jon’s eyes. He had always found Sansa’s love for songs and fascination with magic endearing, but he had never expected her blind faith to come as such a relief to him. It possessed a healing touch that quelled the disquiet in his heart.

He kissed her forehead and smiled through silent tears. “Aye, the Gods truly have blessed me,” he said, trying to find his humor, “Though I’m not sure they’ve blessed you quite as much if they decided to forge your love with mine.”

Slapping his chest, Sansa wandered deeper into the Godswood. They offered their prayers, loitered for a time and, headed back to the castle hand in hand. Sansa let go as they drew closer to the castle. They were, for one, not in the Godswood anymore, and she saw her father’s distinguished figure approaching them.

“Did you sleep well father?” she beamed once they were within hearing distance.

“Aye. I’m glad you and Jon kept your promise, caring for the direpups. Robb and the rest could learn a lesson from you two.”

He looked between the two of them for a pronounced moment. It was too much for Jon. He felt his carefree veneer slipping and his guilt rearing its ugly head again. He had never hidden anything from Ned Stark until now because Ned Stark himself would never deceive for personal gain. He had always wished to be like his uncle but if he could deceive so easily what did that say about the man he had become?

As if Ned had heard his thoughts, he said: “A word, Jon.”

Jon looked to Sansa who was prepared to wait until they were done speaking. “I’ll take the pups to the kennel,” he nodded. _I can’t wait to go to bed with you tonight._

With Sansa returning to the castle, Ned and Jon pivoted to the Godswood so Ned could offer his prayers. They walked in silence, mulling over words in their heads.

_He knows,_ Jon was convinced. _There is nothing that escapes Lord Stark._ He would know. He had aspired to be like him his whole life.

“Your Uncle Benjen has come to Winterfell,” Ned finally said.

“Aye, I met him last night during the feast,” _which I was not allowed to attend._

“I know. He says you were most eager for him to take you with him when he returned to the Wall. That and you were drunk out of your senses.”

Jon’s cheeks burned red as Ned laughed. Yes, he had made his wish to go to the Wall very clear. Even now, with a clear mind, he saw the sense in it. There was no place in Westoros with better prospects for a bastard like him. He could be his own man at the Wall, earn the respect he always deserved.

But going to the Wall also meant parting with Sansa. He knew it was inevitable. His Uncle would make a suitable match for her sooner rather than later and they would have to put an end to their affair. It was all, however, still too new for him to renounce. Perhaps he was being selfish but then again, wasn’t all love selfish? He would do anything to know love just once, and he would do anything to prolong it. The Wall would always be there, Uncle Benjen had said. But Sansa? Sansa would not.

Of course, he said nothing to Ned, simply conveying his inner turmoil with his brooding spell.

“The King has come to make me his Hand,” Ned said, the deep lines in his forehead growing more prominent.

“You’re going to King’s Landing?” Jon balked.

“It would not do to reject Robert. He’s as stubborn as they come. My absence means that Robb will be taking over as Lord of Winterfell.”

A pang of jealousy stabbed Jon through the chest. He shared a special brotherly kinship with Robb but he could never shake off his latent desire to _be_ Robb. Now Robb would be the Lord he could never be. Soon he’d be wed to a beautiful lady and have a brood of children running about Winterfell. He’d have all the things he and Sansa could never have and he would never know just how fortunate he was.

_We are blessed, Jon._

“His carefree days are over then?” Jon grinned.

Ned nodded, his expression grave. “It will not be easy for him. He has come of age but I’m afraid he can be rash at times. He will have his mother to guide him, of course but it would give me some peace knowing you’ll be there to counsel him.”

“I don’t think he needs counsel from the likes of me.”

“He needs a friend at his side who isn’t afraid to speak the truth. You think Greyjoy’s capable of doing that?”

Theon was Robb’s shadow. He went along with anything Robb said.

“The Wall will be there long after Robb’s grown into his position as Steward of the North. After that, there is…” Ned picked his words carefully, “There is the possibility that as Hand to the King, I can ask Robert to legitimize you.”

Jon inhaled sharply. His eyes remained trained on the ground.

“As a Stark,” Ned clarified.

Jon broke into a cold sweat. _Jon Stark_. How long had he longed to be called thus? Yet, now with the possibility crystalizing on the horizon, he felt bile rise from his stomach, burning his throat. He would be Sansa’s brother. What they were doing would make outcasts of them both; banish them to the pits of Seven Hells for eternity.

“Jon?”

Finding his balance, Jon tried to look Ned in the eye but could not. “That would – that would make me – make me –“

“It would put you second in line for Lordship of Winterfell, yes. Before Bran.”

“I couldn’t do that to Bran,” Jon shook his head, with a hoarse voice. “Lady Catelyn will never accept.”

“She will be displeased but it is Robb who inherits Winterfell after myself. The rest is mere formality.”

Jon was dumbstruck. He swayed in indecision, staring off into the distance.

“It is still a ways away,” Ned patted his shoulder after a pregnant pause, “All I’m saying is that the Wall is not your only choice. There are many others.”

“I don’t know if I can ever be a Stark.”

“My blood runs through yours. You’re as much a Stark as Robb or Arya. Remember that.”

***

The next week swept through Winterfell like a violent snowstorm. Sansa found Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were a greater handful than Bran, Arya and Rickon ever were, even as infants. With Robb shadowing Ned before his departure for King’s Landing, Jon was tasked with the immense job of overseeing the care of Robert Baratheon’s substantive escort and making sure their presence did not interrupt Winterfell’s daily happenings. It was hopping from one commitment to the next, from sunrise till sunset for the both of them. They were not allowed the slightest leeway to steal kisses in darkened alcoves or exchange innocent words with hidden meaning in a busy room. Caged as they felt doing their duties, the sheer number of duties showered upon sometimes felt like they had willed time to hasten to the respite come nightfall when they could lie in one another’s arms.

Jon purchased the pennyroyal as Sansa had asked and slipped it into the palm of her hand as he made a show of brushing past her to get to the broiled boar at the banquet hall during supper. The following night, as Sansa lay trembling under Jon from her peak, Jon made to pull out out of habit. Sansa locked her legs around him and urged him to keep going with her heels to his arse.

His fingers dug into her thighs as the coil deep in his stomach tightened, matching the tightness and warmth of her cunt. Sansa lifted herself on her forearms, arching her neck up to kiss the apple of his throat. Snaking her fingers down between them, she touched his cock as he carried on sliding in and out of her.

Jon looked down at her fingers. The sight of his cock, wet with her juices, entering her when he was so close to completion threw him off the edge. He stilled with a whimper. Sansa moved her hips, milking him, filling herself with his warm cum. Jon had forgotten to breathe. His usual, almost animalistic, growls were replaced by complete silence. Eyes squeezed shut, and mouth frozen open as if to say something, he was completely paralyzed.

Kissing his eyes, imploring him to look at her, Sansa pulled him down to lie flush atop of her. He finally let out an erratic breath, hot against the crook of her neck and simply lay there as she stroked his bare back and lulled him to sleep. Cumming inside her had somehow deepened what they had. But it did not do so with any fanfare. It was just a whisper of a moment in the tale of time. It was, as Sansa had said, the most natural thing in the world.

Sansa felt much the same, though she _knew_ it long before Jon. Dragging the balls of her feet up and down Jon’s bare legs, feeling his cum thicken inside her as he slept, she felt her eyes well up. It was no wonder babes were considered a blessing if _this_ was how they came to be.

***

As the day for the royal party and Ned Stark’s departure neared, the Stark children noticed a distance growing between their mother and father. Though Catelyn always wore her impeccable mask of propriety around the Baratheons and Lannisters, the elder Starks knew that she had vehemently opposed Ned’s decision to accept King Robert’s offer to be his Hand.

Catelyn was prone to sudden bursts of anger for the smallest things. Nobody was safe from her wrath, most of all Jon. Jon, for his part, tried his best to stay out of her way but it proved to be difficult whilst being charged with looking after Bran and Rickon in the mornings. At night he took comfort in Sansa’s arms as she kept assuring him that all this would pass once the royal family left.

Sansa had just pulled on her night rail after her bath one night when Catelyn came to her chambers. Her eyes were swollen from crying and voice hoarse. She said she came to see if Sansa had everything she needed before bed but it was obvious she had just had another row with Ned. She climbed into bed next to Sansa – over the covers because she would leave soon, she said – and curled up by Sansa’s side. She was fast asleep before long, trapping Sansa in bed with the gentle but firm embrace of a seasoned mother.

She lay awake, looking from the door to her mother. _She’ll wake soon,_ she thought, _then I can go to Jon_.

But no such luck. Her mother slept. She slept so deeply, Sansa wondered if she would notice if she left. _No!_ She knew she should be mindful. Jon would understand. He always did.

In the morning, Sansa was summoned by Prince Joffrey after breaking her fast. Much to her disdain, it seemed that the Prince had taken a liking to her. She found no pleasure in keeping him company, however. Sansa sensed a cruel streak in him even though he never outright showed his true colors. He always spoke ill of her brothers and of Jon and mocked Arya for her boyish ways. Why he favored her was a mystery. As he kept going on and on about how splendid King’s Landing was in comparison to Winterfell, Sansa wished he would dislike her as he did her family.

They were surveying the entrance to the broken tower when Sansa spotted Jon with a pair of King’s Guard, hauling two saddles over his shoulder. His eyes darkened on meeting hers and his jaw clenched. He turned his back to her and strode over to the saddler’s keep. Was he angry? But surely he didn’t think she did not come to him of her own will?

The rest of the morning passed in a haze. She didn’t know her hand from her foot as she completed chore after chore, exchanged pleasantries with the royal guests, and talked Bran off a wall before her mother saw him and lost her temper again. She felt restless and impatient. For Jon. All because she had not felt his touch for a day. And because he was angry with her. She didn’t like anyone being angry with her. She was much too good and proper to anger anyone.

At noon, she settled down to finish embroidering a handkerchief she had started for her father. It needed to be finished before he left. She had barely sewn four stitches when a servant boy cleared his throat to get her attention. Head bowed, he nervously thumbed at his hat.

“What is it?”

“It’s young Master Rickon, m’lady. We was playing, ye see, and he fell. It’s nothin’ but a scratch but he won’t stop calling for Lady Stark and I canna find her.”

“That’s alright. Take me to him.”

“We was playing behind the Library Tower. I willna be in trouble will I?”

Sansa assured him he would not but he didn’t seem to believe her. They had barely stepped out of the family quarters before he darted for the servant’s quarter. His strange behavior got Sansa worried. Just how badly had Rickon been hurt? Would he need a maester?

She called for Rickon on arriving at the library tower to no answer. That was strange. There was nobody there. She had almost fully circled the building when a vice grip caught hold of her arm and pulled her into a dark, dilapidated and isolated shed. Incapable of uttering even a meek cry, she lost her breath to fear as the owner of the grip shoved her up against the shed’s door and ravaged her lips.

“Jon!” She gasped, kissing him back in short bursts, disoriented but giddy, “Oh, Jon.” She couldn’t stop pulling him in for more kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his eyes, everywhere.

Jon returned her affection, kissing everything from her hair to her nose to the sensitive spot behind her earlobe. “I couldn’t bear waiting till nightfall,” he rasped against her skin, “I couldn’t bear not having you another night.”

“Forgive me,” Sansa moaned, “If I could have I would have, I swear.”

“I know.” He kissed a trail down her neck to the neckline of her dress. His demanding hands stroked down her hips, clutching at the fabric of her dress, raising the hemline one handful at a time.

Sansa’s smallclothes were already dampening and bolts of heat pierced through the length of her body. Through her ragged breaths and half-closed eyes she saw they were in a granary stocked with sacks and sacks of grain. She had never been in here before but, seeing that the shed was quite near the kitchens, someone could come in at any moment. Seven Hells, it was broad daylight outside.

“Jon, we can’t,” Sansa said pathetically. She gently peeled him off of her and straightened her dress. “I need to find Rickon. Poor darling’s gotten hurt.”

Jon chuckled and placed a languorous kiss on her lips. “Rickon’s in the training yard with Bran where I left him. They have strict instructions to hit their pells a thousand times before supper.”

“But that little servant boy said—“

Jon’s eyes twinkled with mischief. Sansa slapped him on the chest to no effect besides making him laugh.

“You sneak! You ordered the boy to lie to me!”

“Good lad, that. Do anything for a sip of meade.”

“You paid him in MEADE?”

Jon doubled over laughing. Sansa did her best to shove him off but her strength was no match for his. He pulled her to his chest in an embrace. When he pulled her chin up to look at her, Sansa refused to meet his eyes.

“I wonder,” he licked his lips, teasing, “would you hurry to my side just so if I were to scrape my knee?”

“I wouldn’t come to you even if you were stabbed in the heart.” She snapped her teeth at a finger tracing her lips.

“Aye,” he said, threading his fingers through her hair and grabbing a fistful, “You just come for me when you want me cock inside o’ ye.”

He attacked her lips before she had a chance to deny the accusation. His movements were ruthless, sinking his teeth into her bottom lip and jostling her this way and that with forceful thrusts of his hips. Reaching around her, he knocked a sack off balance to barricade the door. Their hands were all over each other as Jon nudged her towards a row of sacks plush with flour and grain. She pulled at the ties of his breeches. He wrestled with the fitted blouse of her dress, trying to come upon any bit of skin.

Finally, breathlessly frustrated, he pushed her off of him and gritted his teeth. “Take it all off. Now.”

Sansa’s legs pressed together harder. “Here?”

“Here. Right now. Before I tear it off you.”

Sansa turned her back to him and brushed her hair over her shoulder. “The ties are at the back.”

He pulled at the laces with all the nimbleness of a drunk seaman. When enough of it was undone, he buried his hand into the dress and kneaded Sansa’s breasts through her shift. Sensing his frustration in having the shift’s material between his skin and hers, Sansa slid her arms out of the dress’s sleeves and guided his hands under her shift.

“Gods, Sansa,” Jon groaned. His cock was stabbing the small of her back. “What grown man dreams of sucking at your teats all day long.”

Sansa smiled and arched back into him. Her hands tried to find his cock. “Is that truly what you think of all day long, my love?”

He grabbed hold of her wrists and planted them on the sack in front of her. Hemline hiked up to her waist, he pulled off her small clothes and slid his tongue along her slick folds.

“You know what else I think of?” he said into the inside of her leg.

“Jon…”

She felt his hands stroke up the inside of her legs and rest on her bottom. Gently, his calloused fingertips squeezed the two cheeks together.

“I think of having you go about in nothing but your stockings from dawn to dusk.” He slapped one arse cheek. “Only for my eyes.” A slap on the other cheek. “To do with as I please.”

Sansa bit into her bottom lip to keep from screaming in pleasure. What was he doing to her?

He slid his hand over her hips to rub the tight nub between her legs. His manhood pressed against her opening. “Would you do that for me, sweet Sansa?”

Sansa tried pushing her hips back but Jon stilled her. “Jon, please,” she whined.

The tip of his cock entered. Then retreated.

“Jon,” Sansa panted, looking over her shoulder, “don’t be cruel!”

He dug his nails into her hips and thrust hard. All of him buried inside her in one swift, painfully euphoric motion. Sansa sank her fingers into the grain under her to brace herself for the next thrust and the one after that.

“Answer me,” Jon huffed, hugging her to him.

“Yes!” Sansa muttered, her breaths too shallow to saw too much.

“You’ll wear nothing but stockings for _mmmh_ \- me?” Jon’s balls slapped the inside of her legs.

“We’ll run away. Far – _hanh_ – where - it’ll be just – oh _anhn_ Jon!” She started convulsing around him, tightening her hold of him.

Jon entwined his fingers with hers and leant forward as his thrusts hastened. Sansa pulled his chin to her shoulder and held him there by the hair. She felt him gulp. He was close. “Put your seed inside me, Jon. I want to feel you inside me all day, wherever I am in the castle.”

Clamping his eyes shut, Jon buried his nose into her skin. He spilled into her and held her tight to him long after the tremors passed. Kissing her shoulders, he passed his hands over the red cheeks of her bottom.

“Forgive me. I don’t know what – Have I hurt you?”

Sansa turned to him with a smile. She pulled the sleeves of her dress back on. “There’s nothing to forgive, Jon. Did I sound like I was in pain?”

Jon looked down bashfully before kissing her. He helped her do up the laces of her dress and look respectable before returning outside.

“We musn’t make a habit of this,” Sansa said quietly.

Jon moved the sack away from the door, “Then you musn’t make a habit of not coming to me.”

She gave him a playful peck on the lips before they took turns leaving. Best not to raise suspicions by getting out together. It, however, became apparent there was no need to take such precautions. The castle’s grounds seemed uncharacteristically sleepy.

“Where is everyone?” Jon looked about.

They passed the training yard to see no sign of the boys or Arya. In the family quarters, servants milled about with heads bowed and somber expressions.

“Something’s not right,” Sansa said. “Jon, where is everyone?”

“You there!” Jon called one of the man servants, “Have you seen any of the young ones about?”

The man servant’s eyes grew to the size of saucers, “Why, they’ll be upstairs as you should be. Don’t you know?”

Jon and Sansa’s faces were blank.

“It’s Master Bran. He’s taken a fall. A bad one, I reckon. They found him under the Broken Tower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaah it's so good to write again!!! Hope everyone is having a good/decent holiday season and like always, thank you for reading!


	8. After the Fall

They found the rest of the Stark children and Theon gathered in the antechamber outside Bran’s bedchamber. Ned and Catelyn were inside with the Maester. Rickon was in tears and Arya paced the room angrily. Robb and Theon sat with their shoulders slumped, palming their faces every now and then.

“Where in Seven Hells have you been?” Theon asked incredulously, like it was _his_ brother who had gotten hurt.

“Where are Mother and Father?” Sansa inquired, out of breath, ignoring Theon. “Are they inside?” She pushed past the lot of them to get to the bedchamber.

“No, Sansa wait—“ Robb stood up to stop her but it was too late. She closed the door behind her once she was inside.

Robb narrowed his eyes at Jon, trying to read him. Jon saw the wheels turning in his head and instinctively took a step back. He didn’t dare break their steady gaze on one another for fear of being discovered.

When the silence was stretched too thin, Jon finally asked: “How bad is it?”

“His limbs were mangled and spine limp as an eel.” Robb’s voice trembled. His eyes shot daggers at him.

Jon bowed his head, fighting back tears. His fists clenched and unclenched as his tongue tried to form words. “No.”

All eyes in the claustrophobic antechamber were on him, searing him with their silent accusations. _Where were you, Jon? You were to keep an eye on him, Jon._ The collar of his jerkin tightened around his throat like a noose. He couldn’t breathe.

“But Bran—“ he croaked, “Bran’s never…”

“Aye,” Robb nodded, nostrils flaring. “He’s scaled every tower on these grounds ten times over and never lost his footing.”

“But it only takes the once,” Theon piped in. He looked to Robb for approval. His words seemed to prove insufficient so he proceeded to channel a look of utter malice and disgust to Jon.

Jon fell for it. His voice angrily burst free of the sob choking him, “Have you got something to say, Greyjoy?”

“Aye, I’ve got a lot to say, _Snow_ ,” Theon rose to his feet, “Robb and I were minding official duty while all you had to do was look after the lads. But you couldn’t even do that, could you? You, Snow, always so high and mighty when you’re really nothing but a good for nothing bastard who happens to share Lord Stark’s blood.”

“That’s enough, Theon,” Robb warned.

Jon shoved Theon in the chest, sending his slender form reeling back. “And what’s that to you, huh? You think your words will make you anything but the son of a traitor? That it will make you the same as Robb? Do you think belittling me will help you woo Sansa?”

Theon launched himself at Jon but Jon was faster. He smashed his knuckle into his right eye and knocked him to the ground.

“Enough!” Robb intervened, shoving Jon aside and helping Theon to his feet. “Father will be ashamed if he sees us like this.”

Theon slapped Robb’s helping hand away and stormed out of the chambers. Robb looked at Jon for an apology. But Jon, red with anger, would not concede.

His tongue on the brink of reprimand, Robb spun around when he heard the door to the bedchamber open. Sansa grasped the door for support. All color had drained from her face. She locked eyes with Jon’s before running into his arms.

Jon felt three pairs of eyes questioning eyes bearing down on them both. Sansa clutched at his jerkin, soaking it with tears. His mouth dried and heart pounded in fear. _Sansa what are you doing? What happened to Bran? He can’t be…_

“Sssh,” Jon cooed into her. All will be well, he meant as he stroked her hair. He stopped himself midway.

“There is still breath in his body,” Maester Luwin’s approaching voice said, “All there is left to do now is pray to the Old Gods and the New that he wakes.”

Jon tore himself away from Sansa as Ned and Maester Luwin came upon the threshold. Ned cut Maester Luwin off to address Jon quietly.

“Jon, you shouldn’t be here right now.” He was shaken but his manner was calm, steady and strong as he always was during crises.

“How is he now?” Jon closed the distance between them. He attempted to bypass them into the bedchamber. “Can I go see him?”

Ned halted him. “Not now, Jon. He is with his mother. Another time. You shouldn’t be here.”

Catelyn’s voice sounded from within. Ned turned rigid. “Jon?” she rasped. “Jon?” she repeated louder, her anger spilling forth.

Afraid to face her, Jon retreated to the corridor. He froze at the sight of her pushing past the two men into the antechamber; pale, red-eyed, broken and furious.

“How dare you?” she hissed.  “How dare you come here while my son lies fighting for his life?”

“Mother, please,” Sansa appealed. She stepped before Jon as a shield.

“No, Sansa,” Jon gulped. He prodded her to step aside. Bracing himself for impact, he looked up at Catelyn, ashamed. “Lady Catelyn has every right to be angry with me.”

Scoffing at his words, Catelyn’s lip quivered as she tried to find the right words to scald him with. She raised her hand in the air and smashed it against his cheek. “You were to watch over him!” Another slap on the other cheek. “Where were you?” Another slap on the other cheek. “Where were you?” Another and another. “Where were you? Where were you?”

She backed away, wailing like an injured lioness. Jon remained silent, his head tilted sideways from the last slap, his cheeks red and wet with his tears. Sansa reached her hands out to him but his eyes said, _No._ He would accept punishment for this.

“I’m no fool." Catelyn croaked. “I know Ned’s promised you the Stark name.”

“Cat, now is _not_ the time for this,” Ned interjected sternly but he knew full well his tone had no effect on Catelyn when it came to her children.

“Why? That’s _my_ son in there. His body is shattered. He may never wake and if he does he’ll never walk. All because of you!” she pointed at Jon. “Bran thought the world of you and this is how you return his love? He was just a babe.”

“Lady Stark, I didn’t know…” Jon mumbled. He couldn’t look her in the eye.

“Don’t you dare play the fool with me. I know the blood that runs through your veins.”

Ned grabbed Catelyn by the waist and dragged her into the corridor.

“You would have Robb burn as your grandfather did with Brandon!” her screams echoed through the corridor. “I want him gone, Ned. I want him out of my sight.”

The small antechamber began to spin. Jon’s feet shifted to regain balance but failed. He looked from Sansa to Robb to Arya to Maester Luwin to little Rickon, curled up in a corner sobbing.

“Jon…” he heard Sansa’s voice. She was right next to him. Why then, did she sound so far away? This wasn’t real. This was all a dream. He needed to wake up. The treacherous spectre of Sansa tried to touch him. He flicked her hand away and stumbled out of the chamber.

The door to his bedchamber had barely shut before his warrior’s figure quaked with violent sobs. He slid down to the floor and hugged his knees to his chest. The tears ebbed eventually. He looked off into the distance, completely numb. He was a boy of four again. Robb and Theon had done something he took the blame for. And while he hid away in the dark of his bedchambers all night, life in the castle carried on and not a single soul came to see how the little boy of four was faring.

Only he wasn’t a boy of four. He was a man grown and there was no denying he was to blame. His guilt should have humbled him. Yet, he saw nothing through the rage simmering inside him. Like always he had been put in his place as the leper. Like always his love for his family had been warped and corrupted for convenience’s sake. How much longer would he allow for such humiliation? How much longer before he could be his own man?

***

Catelyn wept herself to the verge of collapsing. At Sansa’s request, Maester Luwin forced milk of poppy down her throat. She fought it, of course. Bran needed her. Bran needed to be protected from any more attempts on his life. From…

 _Not Jon,_ Sansa wished to scream. How could her mother even think Jon would intentionally hurt Bran? Jon looked out for Bran in ways Robb never did. Jon was the best of them all.

But Jon _was_ tasked with watching over the boys. He had left them unsupervised because of her. They were both to blame for this. Jon’s seed had dried and crusted between her legs, acting as a constant reminder of her misdeed as she attended to her mother and the children.

Catelyn’s breaths were soft as she slept. Sansa placed a kiss on her forehead and blew out the candles the bedchambers. She checked on her father to find him sitting motionless before his chest of belongings for the journey. Shutting the chest and telling him to get into bed, she checked on Arya, Rickon and, last of all Bran – all asleep.

Before heading to Jon’s, she returned to her bedchamber to wipe herself clean and change into her nigh trail and housecoat. It was late and she did not wish to stir the servants to fetch warm water for a bath. She just wanted Jon to envelope her in his strong arms.

She blew out her candle on reaching the ground floor landing and tip toed through the winding corridors to Jon’s chamber. Bran’s accident had rendered the castle too quiet. It made every step she took sound like charging horses. As always she pushed on the door without knocking. When it didn’t open, she pushed harder. It was bolted from inside.

She knocked softly. The sound carried down the corridor. Sansa’s throat went dry. “Jon?” Knock. Knock. “Jon, my love, please open the door. Let me see you.”

She pressed her ear to the door. It was heavy and she would not have heard Jon’s quiet puffing breaths if he was asleep but she tried listening anyway.

“Jon,” Sansa pleaded, “the things mother said to you were unforgivable. I will speak to her once she is of sound mind. Once Bran wakes up. And he will wake, Jon. I know he will. The Gods wouldn’t be so cruel to take him away so soon. He has so much to see of the world.”

She thought she heard some rustling on the other side. It was followed by absolute silence.

“Jon, everyone is in pieces. Mother was in hysterics. Father won’t speak a word. And Arya and Rickon keep asking me questions I don’t have answers to. They get angrier with every assurance I try to give them. I know I must be strong for them all and I-I’m trying…truly, but I don’t want to be strong now, Jon.” She stroked the wood of the door as though it were his face, “I’m just a girl who wishes to be held by you. I want to forget…just for a moment. Please.”

She jumped on hearing the dull creak of the bolt sliding up on the other side. It swung open to reveal Jon in nothing but a tunic, hair mussed and eyes swollen. _What have we done_ , his sorrow-filled eyes asked her, _what are we going to do?_

Sansa cupped his face and littered it with kisses. He stood receiving her without responding. Resting her forehead on his, she sighed. “There. I feel better already.”

He turned to go to bed but Sansa caught hold of him in a tight embrace. She lay her cheek on his back and breathed in his grassy scent. “We can face anything, Jon. So long as we’re together.”

“Sansa, please,” Jon chided, disentangling himself from her. “You shouldn’t be here. The castle will stir if Bran wakes and we’ll both be flayed and burnt by your mother.”

He wheeled about to hold the door and held it open for her.

“Jon, what’s gotten into you?”

“Me?” his expression darkened, “Your brother is either going to die or live out the rest of his life as a cripple and you’re here crying for the man responsible to take you to his bed.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

Jon slammed the door shut and stalked over to her. “No? Are you saying we weren’t fucking like dogs when Bran fell off that tower?”

“It was an accident. We didn’t push him off.” Hot tears scalded Sansa’s cheeks.

“We might as well have.”

“If this is about what Mother said—“

“Aye,” Jon chuckled deliriously, “Lady Stark’s no fool. Uncle Ned did offer to legitimize me. Did you know that?”

Sansa’s eyes narrowed in disbelief. “What?”

“Once he’s Hand, he’ll make me Jon Stark. And you Sansa…you’ll be a brother fucker.”

“Jon, stop. Please.”

“And maybe I did wish to get Bran out of the way. Because I’ll tell you this Sansa, I’ve never wanted anything more than to be Lord of this castle. Not even you.”

Sansa regarded him in silence, too stunned to speak.

“And perhaps you are right about keeping faith in the Gods. Perhaps they’ve been listening to me all this time. It’ll be Robb’s turn to fall from a tower soon enough.” He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Will you come to warm my bed for me then as well?”

“Stop it!” Sansa cried, shoving him away. “Stop it! This isn’t you.” She trembled and panted, trying to decipher the maliciousness possessing Jon. She extended a loving hand to his face but he flinched away. “Jon, you’re hurt. You would never wish such horrid things for your family, let alone act on them. Not against Bran or against Robb or Arya.”

She backed him against the door. He closed his eyes and tilted his head away from her. “Come back to me,” Sansa implored, turning his face and stroking the damp skin under his eyes, “Come back to me, Jon. My love, my everything, please.”

Jon shook his head, “There’s no going back.”

“Jon, listen to me. Bran has scaled this castle’s walls a hundred times. Sometimes we were there to watch him but most of the time we weren’t. He could have fallen any of those tens of times he snuck past Old Nan. It was an accident.”

Jon still did not meet her eyes.

“And if it is blame you wish to dole out then we are both guilty. You didn’t act alone. Jon, please look at me.”

His eyelids peeled open a smidge. The tears clinging to his lashes caught the candlelight and shimmered for a breath. The beauty of it made Sansa smile despite her despair.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Jon didn’t have it in him to speak but his gaze said it all. _And I love you._ He turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. He pulled Sansa onto his lap and cradled her. “I knew we needed to be careful,” he sighed, “I knew it right from the beginning.”

“I know you did, my love,” Sansa said, kissing his jaw.

“But I’d gone mad being parted from you for so long.”

This made Sansa smile. “Makes me wonder how we survived all that time you were away at the Neck or when I wasn’t speaking to you.”

Jon groaned. “I was a miserable little sod the entire time. Please don’t ever do that again.”

“Stop speaking to you, you mean?”

“Aye.”

“Alright. But only if you never leave me again.”

Jon’s heart clenched. His hold on Sansa tightened.

“Promise me, Jon.”

A forced chuckle left his lips. “You’d have me sitting at home with the womenfolk if the men are ever called to arms?”

“Yes,” Sansa said playfully, “You’ll stay right here and protect us from invasion. That way I’ll always have you to myself.”

“Will you be able to love such a man?”

Sansa kissed him.

Half a grin cracked Jon’s somber face. “Perhaps you won’t want me as much when I’m older.”

“And perhaps you won’t love me when I’ve lost my beauty. It _would_ make our lives much simpler.”

“You are the prettiest girl I have ever known, Sansa,” Jon said sincerely, “but that’s not the only reason I love you.”

Placing a kiss on her forehead, he rose to his feet and carried her to the bed. Sansa removed her housecoat and crawled under the covers. Jon squeezed in beside her and slithered his hand into her night rail to lazily palm her breast. Sansa felt his contented sigh against her shoulder and his hardened body relax against her own.

“Jon?”

“Mm?” Jon replied sleepily.

“What will we do if Father does legitimize you?”

“He proposed the possibility but I haven’t accepted yet.”

“Jon,” Sansa turned around to face him, “I want you to accept if it will make you happy.”

Jon searched her eyes for a moment before drawing her close for a long kiss. “You are the greatest happiness I’ve ever known, Sansa.”

With that, Sansa curled into his chest and fell asleep with a smile etched on her tear stricken face. Jon, on the other hand, did not sleep a wink all night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I had hoped to cover more ground story-wise in this chapter but it was getting too long and I love writing scenes with these two cuties too damn much. Hope the new year is treating you all well and as always, thank you for reading!


	9. The Sentence

The summer sky never truly grew dark. There was always a hint of light somewhere far on the horizon. It made the night more inviting than frightening. Tonight, as Jon lay awake gazing out of his window, it was an elixir that healed his wounds and gave him courage.

With time his mind cleared and his heart lightened. How could he not when Sansa’s soft breaths brushed his skin? There is light in the darkest of nights, he thought to himself, one only needs to reach out and take hold of it.

The deep blue of the sky gradually lightened. Birds stirred beyond the castle’s walls and sang their morning songs. Gods, how does one sleep in this ruckus, Jon wondered.

Sansa didn’t seem to have much trouble. She slept soundly with a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Jon longed to bury his nose in her hair, surrender to sleep and hide away in these chambers forever. That would not be possible, of course. Sansa needed to return her chambers soon. The castle would begin to stir within the hour.

Placing a feather-light kiss on Sansa’s cheek, he carefully slid off the bed so as not to jostle it. Sansa moaned in protest at the sudden absence of his warmth but stilled with sleep again. Jon waited till he pulled his breeches on to tear his eyes away from her, and head to the family quarters to check on Bran.

Lady Catelyn had made her way to sit vigil by Bran’s side but the effects of the milk of poppy had not worn off. She was fast asleep.  As was Bran. Jon’s heart twisted at the sight of the young Stark. His eyes flickered behind his closed eyes, no doubt fighting the pain.

“Forgive me, Bran,” Jon whispered from the doorway, “I would’ve never left you if I’d known.”

Taking a detour through the kitchens, he startled Sansa on his return. She was in the midst of doing up the laces of her housecoat.

“It’s me,” Jon smiled. He held up a lemon cake. “I thought you’d be hungry.”

Beaming, Sansa snatched the cake from him, took a bite and pecked his lips.

“I got another one just in case you needed a ruse,” Jon smirked.

Sansa broke off a piece and fed it to him. “You do think of everything, don’t you Jon?”

“Mmm…there’s a very proper lady in the castle who teaches me.” He pulled her in for a kiss, deepened it, extracting a moan from her. Feeling her hands fisting his tunic out of his breeches, he stilled them. “Your mother will be looking for you soon enough.”

“I know,” Sansa sighed, resting her forehead on his, “I just can’t bear this pretense. I can’t be strong for everyone else without my one strength by my side.”

“You are a lady of House Stark. You’re made to endure much more than this.”

“I know.”

“And you will always have me,” Jon said, drawing her away to look at her, “We are stronger together than we are alone.”

Sansa sighed contentedly and buried her head in his chest. “Hold me a while longer, Jon.”

“As you wish, M’lady.”  

***

Jon knew what he had to do but he was not the most eloquent of men. A part of him told him to wait. To discuss it with Sansa when she came to him at night. For once he actually had someone to discuss important matters with. The thought made him giddy.

Catelyn’s words rang in his ears. Though they had lost their sting, their implications made the matter all the more urgent. Time was of the essence. Bran’s fall was not enough to convince King Robert to delay his departure by much. Uncle Ned would be gone soon. He needed to act. Now.

After the midday meal, when Jon knew Ned would seek out solace to read before going downstairs to take the evening’s first wine with King Robert, Jon made his way up to his uncle’s solar. Dread gave way to hope. The Old Gods watched over him. Sansa believed so. So did he.

Jon asked after Bran. He had thought it best to avoid Lady Catelyn when possible for the time being. Ned had nothing new to tell him. He leaned back in his chair, twined his fingers and looked at Jon. The crow’s feet at his eyes’ corners deepened. He seemed to wish to say something but remained silent. Jon knew Ned loved him. He just never showed it.

Nobody was allowed to show him their love. That ended now.

“I’ve come to accept your offer,” he declared, “I’d have you request King Robert to legitimize me, if you’re still willing.”

Ned nodded. “I thought you would.” He stroked his chin in deep thought. “If it is what you want, I will ask Robert. I only ask that you keep this to yourself for the time being. With Bran’s fall, Cat will not take well to the news. I’ll also need some time to arrange for some land in your name so that she doesn’t get it in her head you want Winterfell.”

“No,” Jon said resolutely. “I do not wish to take Winterfell from Robb or Bran or Rickon.”

“Jon, you’re a lad of sharp mind. Lady Stark didn’t truly mean what she said yesterday.”

“I know. But I truly don’t want Winterfell.” He gulped. “And neither do I want the Stark name.”

Ned thought he misheard. His brows furrowed.

“I wish to bear my true name. Of House Targaryen.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, Ned let out a chuckle. He closed his eyes and rubbed his lids. “Jon, I am too tired for such jest.”

“I’m not jesting.”

“Then you’ve gone mad,” Ned reprimanded. He flinched at the last word. “Robert would have your head raised on a spike in King’s Landing if I told him of your Targaryen father. Seven Hells boy, he would behead _me_ for hiding it from him all these years.”

“What happened between King Robert and my father is of no consequence to me. Rhaegar Targaryen died before I was born. I was raised by House Stark, a family loyal to the throne. I do not seek the throne for myself. I merely wish to bear the name that is rightfully mine, and have the dignity denied me from birth.”

“You will have the dignity of a traitor’s execution,” Ned scoffed. “Is this what’s become of all I’ve taught you? Of everyone, I’d never expected you to plant such fears in me, that too mere days before I leave.”

“I have no quarrel with King Robert.”

“By Gods, are you daft, boy? Innocent Targaryen women and children have been slaughtered on Robert’s orders for what your father did. His wounded pride plunged the realm into war. You expect this very same man to look the other way? To keep your brothers and sisters alive for protecting you?”

Jon puffed his chest up defiantly. It was all he could do for the words would not come.

“Jon,” Ned said softly. He came up to him and a reassuring hand on either shoulder, “The same blood that runs through my veins runs through yours. Do not take what Catelyn said to heart. You are as much a Stark as I am.”

“No.”

Ned shoved Jon away in frustration. “May I ask the reason for your sudden dismissal of the name, Stark? Is it not an honorable house for you to embrace?”

It was becoming difficult for Jon to stand his ground. He could hardly look Ned in the eye. “That’s not it.”

“Have I not provided for you? Cared for you to the best of my ability?”

“Fath—“ Jon shut his eyes, “Uncle, I can’t be a Stark.”

Jon sensed Ned’s temper rising. Having never before been cause for his anger, Jon lost his nerves. “I wish to ask for Sansa’s hand in marriage.”

Ned froze. Incomprehension glazed his eyes. “My Sansa?”

“Yes. Uncle, please...”

Ned raised a hand to stop him. He reached for the edge of his desk for support. “Gods, help me.”

“We are in love,” Jon blurted out, “And I – I’ve got nothing to give her but, if you’ll help me, I know can be the man she deserves. I’ll love her and care for her more than you can ever wish. I’ll protect her, I promise. But I can’t do that as a brother.”

“When?” Ned asked quietly, hunched over the desk, unable to look at Jon. “How long?”

Jon’s face grew hot. “This past fortnight. But my affections of for go back further. Before I left for the Neck.”

Looking off into the distance, Ned spoke to himself, “How did I not see?”

He braced himself against the desk and took a long calming breath. “I cannot allow for it.”

“Uncle Ned, please. In your heart you know that no suitor of noble blood will look after Sansa as I will.”

“Perhaps,” Ned straightened himself to his full height. He held Jon’s gaze. There was neither anger nor disapproval in his eyes. But Jon did not see the acceptance he so desperately sought either. “But I must do my duty as a father. And no father would be so careless as to marry his daughter to a traitor’s son.”

“But I have no relation with Rhaegar or the Mad King!” Jon’s voice cracked.

“A name is relation enough,” Ned said. His tone implied there would be no more discussion. “I’d expected more from you, Jon. You leave me in a position where I can’t trust your better judgement.”

“We’ll go away to Essos,” Jon begged. He wanted to cry. “Sansa and I. But I won’t dishonor her by keeping my title as her brother. I won’t give people the satisfaction of gossip.”

“If you think I’ll let you make a fugitive of my daughter, you really are stupid, Jon. I’d given you every opportunity a boy born of your circumstances could hope for and you risk it all by entertaining this notion of revealing yourself to Robert.”

Argument was futile at this point. Jon remained silent. He shrank away, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.

“I can’t have you in the Castle after I’m gone,” Ned solemnly said, “Catelyn’s already upset because of Bran and I can’t risk you or Sansa doing anything foolish.”

A chill ran up Jon’s spine. He did not want to hear the rest of what Ned had to say.

“You will go to the Wall with Benjen— take the Black.”

“Father, please don’t do this.”

“You’ve left me with no choice!” Ned slammed a nearby wall, causing Jon to retreat a step. He regained his composure quickly and sighed. “The Starks have always made a name for themselves in the Night’s Watch. I’m certain you’ll be no different. There is great honor in serving. It’ll be a life worthy of who you are.”

No, Jon wanted to scream.  If he were to have a life worthy of him, he should have Sansa. He should be allowed to make a home with her. Have children with her. Grow old with her. In its stead he was being offered nothing. None of these thoughts, however, materialized into words. All he could say, through his simmering rage, was, “And what about Sansa? Doesn’t she deserve a husband who loves her?”

“She deserves to be safe. Jon, if your feelings are as you say, entrust her future to me. I will make a good match for her.”

Jon opened his mouth to retaliate but the words didn’t come. Deep down, he knew this was an argument he could not win.

“Your mind is clouded at the moment,” Ned searched his face, “I dare say I know what it is you’re going through. I was young once too. But I know I’ve raised you to be a man of honor.”

In your own image, Jon thought. Oh, how he had always wanted to be like Ned Stark.

“Love and honor are strange things. At times they are one and the same, at others they are conflicting forces. But know this, Jon. If it is between love and honor you must choose, you must always choose honor. There is great honor in the journey upon which you’re about to embark.”

He sighed heavily with finality. “Your Uncle Benjen will be leaving Winterfell with the Royal Party. You best gather your things and say your goodbyes.”

Jon glared at Ned. It was no use though. He resigned and turned to leave.

“And Jon,” Ned called after him. As always his manner was gentle but stern. “Make no mistake. Breaking the Crow’s Vow is unforgiveable, even if you are a Stark. The man who passes the sentence will swing the sword.”

Jon slammed the door after him.

***

Sansa mixed the contents of her moon tea and set it aside to brew before taking her bath. Later, she dried herself and brushed her hair in front of her mirror. Her weary countenance brightened with every passing moment. She hadn’t seen him since she left his chambers in the morning. But she would be in his arms soon. She hadn’t the slightest idea how she had survived all those moons without him when he was at the Neck. Never again, she adamantly thought to herself.

A knock at her door sent her heart leaping into her mouth.

“Come in.”

She had expected it to be her mother. It was her father.

“Father,” she said with furrowed brows, “Is everything alright?”

Ned nodded, though his bleak expression said otherwise.

“What is it?” Sansa probed.

“I’ve spoken to your mother,” he said in a low voice. “You and Arya are to gather your belongings and come with me to King’s Landing.”

“King’s Landing?” Sansa balked. “But what on earth for? I can’t go now. Mother needs me here.”

“Your mother is strong. And besides, you’ve always wished to see the Capital. Robert’s Court will be a fine place to find a suitor.”

Sansa couldn’t believe her ears. “Have all the respectable men in the North perished that I must go to King’s Landing to find a suitor?”

“Sansa, our decision is final.”

“Then you must have ample reason! Tell me what it is.”

“You are of marriageable age, Sansa. This is a good opportunity to choose yourself a suitor.”

Sansa turned away and returned to her brushing. “Well, perhaps I do not wish to marry a southerner.”

“Because of Jon,” Ned said, plainly.

Sansa’s hand stilled. The hand holding the brush shook in dread. She daintily placed it on the dresser and looked down at her entwined fingers on her lap, too scared to face her father.

“Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter. He has decided to take the Black—“

“No!” Sansa whipped around.

“…And you will be coming south with me. We will put all this behind us and forget it ever happened.”

“How can I simply put this behind me? Father, I love him!”

“Sansa, please,” Ned’s face twisted in guilt. He had always cherished Sansa’s idealistic nature, her ability to find happiness in the smallest of things. Nothing had prepared him to see her so visibly upset. “It is for your own good. Your love for him puts you in grave danger. Robert will not take kindly to your involvement with a traitor’s offspring.”

A thousand thoughts flooded Sansa’s mind: What was she to do? Should she run away? When would be the best time to act? They were happy. Why was her Father so intent on destroying her happiness?

“You can’t…”

“We’re leaving in two days’ time, my love. Pack your belongings and please, do not involve your Mother in this. She has much troubling her as it is”

He turned in his tracks to leave.

“I’ve lain with him,” she whispered, her expression vacant as though bewitched, “What southerner will take a wife who hasn’t her maidenhead?”

Their eyes locked. Ned was unnerved by the defiance in her eyes.

“Jon’s taking the Black for the honor of our family. You’d do well to take after his example.”

Sansa sat stock still after her father left her chambers. She didn’t want to believe any of it. How could she when it meant being parted from Jon?

At times, when she felt most helpless, she found solace in a neat solution that lay beyond the mountain of hardship ahead. If there was a solution, she always knew she could manage. But what was the solution to this blow? Was there one to begin with?

She forced herself to remember all she had said to Jon about their love. There was no shame in their love. They were meant to be. Never forget Sansa, she told herself over and over, never let go of your faith.

Her eyes raked her chambers. A glimmer of a solution was all she needed.

Her tankard of moon tea still stood hidden behind her sewing basket where she had stowed it away. Picking it up, she swirled the contents like the ideas in her mind.

A puzzling, very disheartening truth about coming of age dawned on her then: solutions rarely ended in everyone’s happiness. They were merely a means to an end.

Emptying the tankard into the chamber pot, she went to Jon’s chambers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!!! So Ned is really difficult to write because he's so stoic all the time. I hope he turned out alright in this chapter.
> 
> As always, thank you for your lovely comments. I'm really bad at replying, but I do read all of them. They are my greatest motivation :) Until next time, Cheers!


	10. Farewell. For Now.

Jon was not in his chambers. Neither was he in the stables or kennel or kitchens.

It was like Sansa was a ghost, drifting through the silent castle in search of her lost lover. The thought amused her despite the heartbreak slowly shrouding her entire being. It will be difficult, she braced herself, but it will all be well.

The Godswood hummed in the night breeze, tuning out the overbearing silence of the castle behind her. It pulled her in, spoke to her, and guided her into its depths to what she searched for. She found him waiting for her, as though he had heard the same call. His adoration, pure yet carnal, singed through her clothes and licked her skin with fire. It was gratifying yet worrisome for she saw a concentration in his eyes; a dedication to commit everything he saw to memory.

Closing the distance between them, she brushed the pads of her thumbs on his lids and shut his eyes. He clenched his jaw in an attempt to suppress his emotions. Sansa rested her forehead on his and slid her thumbs down to his lips where he uttered a soft helpless sigh. Her mouth hovered over them; blew hot breaths that mingled with his as her thumbs traced the outline of his lips.

A sob broke free from Jon’s chest. He crashed his lips onto hers, pulling her flush against him and fisting her hair. There was little tenderness. He pressed harder; embedded his lips over hers like he was welding them together to keep them united forever.

Lightheaded and hurting from Jon’s grip, Sansa let out a strangled moan and fisted the collar of his jerkin to pull him closer. She felt his hard cock poking her under her navel and ground her hips against his. Jon dug his fingers into her hip to make her stop. Sensing him pull away, she clamped both her hands around his face and continued kissing him. Grunting in disapproval, he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth and bit it. Hard.

Sansa withdrew with a gasp. Jon looked at her, eyes dark with anger, and wiped a smidgeon of blood from his lips. She raised a finger to her own to find that it had come from her. Jon had drawn blood from her.

“We best stop sooner than later,” he gulped, averting his eyes in shame. “It’ll make it simpler when we’re apart.”

“Jon…” Sansa implored in a meek hush. He would not look at her. She found her voice. “So it’s done then? Just like that? You’re to spend your days north, at the Wall and I – I am to be some Southron man’s breeding mare.”

“You will be safe,” Jon shook his head, “And Father will make sure you’re wed to a good man.”

“Jon, this is madness.”

“No, _this_ is madness,” he raised his voice. He reined in his frustration; tried to be gentler even though the stable hand’s brutish nature was adamant to bare its ugly head. “There’s no other way.”

“We’ll leave Winterfell. Go to Essos,” Sansa entwined her fingers with his and held his palm to her heart. “We’ll make a life for ourselves.” Her worry gave way to nervous laughter. Words tumbled out in flurry. “Remember how you teased you’d have me in nothing but my stockings all day? We’ll find ourselves a nice cottage for the two of us and we’ll be able to live as we please. Please, Jon.”

A melancholy smile tugged at the corner of Jon’s lips. He cupped her cheek and wiped away her frightened tears. “I reckon folk will have a great deal to say about a bastard who steals his highborn sister.”

“I don’t care what they say.”

“Sansa, my love,” Jon kissed their entwined fingers. _My love._ He had never imagined he would ever have someone to call that, “I’ve got nothing to give you besides a traitor’s name. King Robert will place a bounty on our heads the moment he learns the truth and we’ll be putting our family in grave danger. Sansa, I can vow to protect you with my body but I am not foolish enough to think that will enough against the King’s army.”

“How did this happen? How did father discover us?”

Jon lowered their hands. His eyes stayed glued on them as he stroked the length of her fingers. “It was me. I told him. I wished to be legitimized as a Targaryen and I couldn’t keep the truth from him.” He drew his hands away. “Forgive me.”

Heart clenching, Sansa wrapped her arms around him..

“I’ve wronged you, Sansa,” Jon held her tightly, “I knew this would happen all along. I’m older and yet I did nothing.”

“Ssh,” Sansa cooed, stroking his hair. “Ssh....”

He drew away and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. He knew he should have begun putting distance between them to preserve his sanity but there was no denying the pull he felt every time he looked upon her blue eyes; their kindness, their gentleness and their indisputable love for him. He placed a chaste but lingering kiss on her forehead. “I fear I’ll forget what it feels like to have you with me. What it feels like to be cared for.”

He kissed the corner of her lips lightly; savored their warmth and softness as he placed shy kisses across them. He was lost in his reverie, coaxing Sansa to lose herself as well. But that was a luxury she didn’t have.

“Jon,” she stilled him. Drawing away she implored him to look at her. “The men of the Night’s Watch take no wives. They father no children.”

“All the better.”

“Jon, you can’t. You deserve to have a family. If not with me then with someone else.”

“Sansa, I don’t trust myself to stay away from you. And neither does Father. He saw through me the moment I told him. It seems that, even though I never knew him, I truly am Rhaegar Targaryen’s son. I reckon Uncle Ned hopes fear of the Old Gods will keep me from breaking my vows once I’ve taken them.”

“You’re not a God-fearing man, Jon Snow.”

“Aye. But I would like to be a man of duty someday. The Starks have served the Night’s Watch for hundreds of years. If I can’t have the honor and duty of loving you, the least I can do is take the Black and protect the realms of men.”

“Protector of the realms of men. My Jon,” Sansa mused as she traced the slope of his neck with her fingers, “They’ll write songs about you. The warrior born of ice and fire. And in years to come, silly little girls like me will hear those songs and dream of being wooed by such a man, and like me they will have their hearts broken because duty and honor will always be the ruin of love.”

“Sansa…”

Sansa pushed him away. “You should never have sent me that letter.” She was crying in earnest now. Wiping away her tears, she continued, “You should never have accompanied me to the Godswood. All those days you had the chance to walk away and you still allowed me to love you. Why, Jon? How could you be so cruel?”

“I don’t know.” Jon’s words were a quiet tremor.

Clenching and unclenching her fists, tears glistening on her face, Sansa straightened to her full height and glared at him.

Beholding her in her rage, the reality of what lay ahead hit Jon like club to the chest. She would belong to another man someday, give him children and shower them with her love. And what would become of him then? He would become a memory; a creature that brought her immense pain as a vulnerable girl. Something she would look upon with disdain in hindsight. And he would have nothing but his honor to fuel his will to live.

Overcome by the urge to possess her, to shoo away premonitions of where he fit in her life, he moved to take her in his arms but she swatted his hands away. A step closer, and she rammed the heel of her palm into his chest. Grabbing her by the waist, he held on to her as she tried to wrestle free.

“No,” she pressed on his chest, “You’re a cruel man, Jon Snow. You proclaim love for me only to abandon me, knowing I can’t bear the thought being without you.”

Jon tipped her head back and silenced further protest with a heated kiss. Whimpering against him in defeat, Sansa pulled at his hair and returned it. She was in a fatigued daze when he drew away, breathing heavily.

“Forgive me.”

Sansa lowered her lids in surrender.

“Say it,” he growled against her mouth.

“Forgiven,” she panted, frantically kissing him, “Always.”

They stumbled about the Godswood, smothering each other in kisses. Sansa found purchase against a tree trunk as Jon nipped and sucked down her neck. His hand found the slit in her housecoat and drew it up her legs.

Sansa placed a stilling hand on his. “No, Jon. Not like this.”

Nodding his head, Jon drew away, head still bowed. “We’ll go back to my chambers.”

“No, we’ll stay here.”

Jon raised his head, confused. Sansa leaned over and kissed the apple of his neck. Her fingers undid the buckles of his jerkin. Jon helped her along and disposed of the garment, along with the tunic underneath. He watched Sansa in rapture as she pensively ran her fingers over his torso, lowered her head and kissed down to his nipple before taking it in her mouth.

“Gods, Sansa,” Jon groaned.

Teasing her fingers down his breeches, she watched him inhale sharply. “Jon?”

“Yes, Sansa,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Do you find all women’s bodies fair?”

Jon stroked up and down her arms. “I suppose. Women’s bodies are softer, more inviting than men’s. They also smell a good deal better.”

Sighing, Sansa bit her lips. “It’s easier to tell a woman’s beauty, isn’t it? Before I…before we…” She let out a shaky breath. “I always thought I’d fancy a man of great beauty. I suppose I expected him to look like a woman. Isn’t that silly?”

“’Beauty’ _is_ quite broad in its meaning.”

“No other man’s ever made me feel the way you do…” Sansa smiled. It was a smile meant for herself and her thoughts, “…like you do when we lay together. What if– what if no other man makes me feel the way you do, Jon?”

“He will. And if he doesn’t, you’ll show him how to touch you.”

A laugh, forced and shrill, escaped Sansa. She kissed Jon and twirled away on ginger feet. She danced in circles to the rustle of the leaves like a wood nymph, untying the stays on her housecoat. Spreading the garment out on the grass, she slipped off her night rail and sat with her legs tucked to one side.

“Come, Jon,” she called with outstretched arms, “Be my husband tonight.”

Having removed his breeches, Jon sat down beside her and pulled her onto his lap. She let out a wanton moan at the feel of their lips joining again while his cock brushed against her slit.

“What—” she moaned, “what would you have me say for my husband to give me pleasure, Jon?”

Jon lay her down and hovered above her, placed wet kisses on her and tasted her skin down her neck, to her collar bone, to her breasts. “You’ll tell to him take his time. Attend to every nook and cranny of your body.” He sat up and kissed her knees before parting them.

Sansa’s breath caught. The slow progress of his glimmering dark eyes from her own down to her cunny made her clench in anticipation.

His calloused fingers edged up her inner thighs, sending a shiver up her spine. “You like that don’t you, my love? You’ll tell him to ease his hands up to where you’re burning and soaked for him. He’ll taste the soft skin that you have hiding under your skirts all day. Lick it.” He blew hot air along the wet trail he’d made up her leg, making her pull her knees up to her chest in delirious anguish.

The coarse tips of his scant boy’s beard tickled the nub above her slit. It pulsed at the feel of his breath as he spoke: “You’ll make him kiss you here. Command him to bring you to your peak with his tongue.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Command me, Sansa,” he grazed his teeth against her nub, pressed his thumbs into the delicate flesh between arse and legs. “Look at me when I put my mouth on you.”

Fire in her eyes, she propped herself up on her elbows, watched him through the valley of her breasts as they rose and fell. “Like this, Jon?”

He growled into her flesh, and devoured her; kneaded her nub with his tongue before plunging it into her sopping wet cunt. Sansa thrust into his mouth, all the while keeping her eyes fixed ahead, at the man bringing her close to her peak. She was too mesmerized by his devotion to make a sound. Her breaths quickened as the fiery spring of pleasure coiled tighter but she didn’t utter a sound. Jon replaced his tongue with his fingers, briskly pulling in and out and tickling the upper wall of her cunt. He sucked on the hardened nub. Harder. Harder. Harder…

All became still. Sansa’s walls clamped around Jon’s fingers and her heart seemed to have stopped beating. She had forgotten to breathe. Uncomfortably so. Finally, she gasped like someone who had managed to swim to the surface on the brink of drowning. Her contracted walls began to convulse around Jon’s fingers, elbows gave way and she collapsed to the ground in a fit of violent quakes.

Sitting up on his knees, he watched her as he continued pressing his fingers up on her walls, eliciting spasm after spasm, and a string of strangled cries, until pleasure gave way to pain and she rocked her hips up and squeezed her knees shut. Wiping her slick from his mouth, he wetted his cock with what was on his fingers.

The aftershocks of Sansa’s peak continued to rattle her frame as she lay on her side, hugging her knees to her chest. Jon lay behind her, brushed her hair away from her face and wrapped her in his arms to bring her back. Their breaths synchronized and soon, Sansa’s body relaxed against him.

“Jon…”

“Under all the pretty dresses and perfect manners, you are a fiery northern woman, Sansa.”

“Aye,” she sighed in his speak, reaching behind her to tangle her fingers in his coarse raven locks. They travelled lower to find his cock. “How would you have me seduce my husband into performing his other duty.”

Laughing into her neck, Jon poked her arse with his cock. “I don’t think much seduction is required. He’ll be knockin’ on your chambers at night saying, ‘Lady wife,’” he raised her leg over his own and positioned himself at her entrance, “’I believe it is our sworn duty to secure an heir.’ And if he is a good man, he’ll offer the Gods a prayer before—“

“Jon!”

“Sansa -- _ungh_ ,” his voice gruff, panting as he pumped himself into her, “I can’t think of– “

“I know, Jon. _Mmh_ just don’t stop.”

“I’ll rip his cock off.”

“Yes, Jon. Plea – _eeh – mmph –_ like that, yes.” Sansa caught sight of the heart tree a little way away, it’s all-seeing eyes watching them. Please, she thought. Please, please, please. She looked down and watched his cock pushing in and out of her, stroked his forearm encouragingly and turned her head to feel his erratic breaths against her mouth. When Jon tried to sneak his fingers down to her nub, she stopped him. “You’re so close, Jon. I can feel – _hnh_ – I can feel you. You’re so close, my love.”

“Sansa…”

Sansa locked their lips together and squeezed her muscles around Jon. His hand clawed into her stomach and a muffled roar ripped through his chest. He pumped again and again, warming her insides with his seed. Hopefully quickening her womb. She reached down and guided his last strokes with a deft touch, afraid he would slip out. Not a single drop would be wasted.

With the final drop of his seed spent, Jon rolled onto his back. Sansa mimicked him, crossing her legs to ensure she remained in possession of her lover’s gift. Lying side by side in silence, they watched stars glimmer through the canopy of leaves. Both thought this a wondrous place to make love. They should do it again. But there was no time.

“I have to go take the Black,” Jon sadly admitted after much introspection, “The thought of you with another man…if I’m anywhere down south, I’ll have his head for touchin’ you.”

Rolling onto Jon, Sansa looked at his face: Worn out, relieved, anxious, upset.  She kissed away the lines forming at the corner of his eyes and observed him in wonder. He was not the Prince she dreamed of but Old Gods and New, she would remember this face, with lips upturned between a sigh and a smile, returning her adoration.

***

Sansa lay in bed, staring at the beams holding up the ceiling. Her belongings were packed into trunks and taken downstairs. She had bid her friends farewell and had spent the night accompanying her mother as she sat vigil at Bran’s bedside. Her palm stroked her belly in anticipation, as if it could swell with Jon’s babe at any moment. It was too soon, of course. She wouldn’t know for sure for another fortnight when it was time for her to shed her moon’s blood.

Her mind scrambled to draw out plans. She still had no idea what to do next. Jon would refuse to run away for fear of shaming their family and her father would find them eventually. Then there was the matter of Jon’s taking the Black. Breaking the vow meant execution. Her father would behead Jon himself if he were ever caught. The thought erased all other constructive thought from her mind. Gods she needed help!

Septa Mordane came to her chambers to tell her that the Royal Party had already set out on the King’s Road and that they were to leave shortly. Straightening her skirts, she went downstairs to say her final goodbyes to her brothers and the castle’s servants. At the main gate, she decided not to join Septa Mordane, Arya and her handmaids in the closed carriage and ordered the stable hand to ready her horse.

She loitered till the entire party was ahead of her. Taking cover behind the cargo carriages she stayed on the lookout for Uncle Benjen and Jon. Not long into their journey, she spotted Uncle Benjen, looking a raven in his black cloak riding his black steed, racing north. Jon and Ned followed at a trot, conversing with one another. Her father placed a reassuring hand on Jon’s shoulders before riding back to the party going south.

Jon looked on after his Uncle and remained there on seeing Sansa watching him atop her mare. It seemed he would say his goodbye with the gulf separating them, but he eventually guided her to a secluded grove nearby. He helped her off her horse and held her to him. Her feet didn’t touch the ground. Sansa showered his face with kisses, silently pleading him not to leave her.

He set her on the ground, rested his forehead on hers and closed his eyes in reverie. “I can’t stay long.”

“I know.” Sansa nodded, heart pounding. It was now or never. “Jon, I have one request of you.”

“Sansa,” he warned.

“No, go. Go, but don’t take your vows.”

Drawing away, Jon looked at her, bemused.

“Promise me.”

“I can’t be a man of the Night’s Watch without taking my vows.”

“I’m not asking to shirk service to them. I’m asking you not to take their vow.”

“Sansa, what grounds will I have to break bread with them if I don’t take the vow?”

“Nobody will question one more capable hand at the Wall. Listen to me Jon, go to the Wall, work hard and stay long enough so word of your presence reaches Father. I’ll send you word once I’ve arranged safe passage to Essos.”

“Sansa!” Jon reprimanded, gripping her by the shoulder. “I will not feed into this madness.”

“It’s not madness at all, Jon. You can make it so that you’ve disappeared north of wall. Doesn’t that happen all the time? And I will think of some other story for myself. Don’t you see? Nobody will be able to put two and two together.”

“Father will.”

“Jon we may not have a choice!”

Mixed with the tears in her eyes was a madness that deeply unsettled Jon. His heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach. “Sansa, what have you done?”

She took his hand and placed it on her belly.

“No!” Jon’s jaw clenched, the world around him falling apart. “You said you’d brewed the tea.”

“I did but the past few nights, I thought—“

“You betrayed my trust.”

“Don’t say it like that, Jon. Please. He won’t be a bastard. We will be married by the time he’s born.”

Both Jon’s hands roamed her stomach, lines appearing on his forehead as he considered what she proposed. “You’re sure?”

Sansa wished to say yes to get him to promise. “No,” she shook her head, “It’s too soon.”

Sniffing, he nodded. Tried to put on a brave face that wouldn’t betray just how frightened he was. “I will wait for your raven, then.”

Bursting into tears, Sansa flung herself at Jon in an embrace. “I love you, Jon Snow.”

“And I you, Sansa Stark.”

He pried her off of him and attempted to smile for her comfort. They mounted their horses and rode out of the grove.

“Watch for my raven, Jon,” Sansa said over her shoulder as she headed south.

Jon lifted his hand up in farewell. He watched her catch up to the procession before turning his horse and heading behind Uncle Benjen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I am truly overwhelmed by all the love you gave me for the last chapter. Given everything that's happening around the world, I can't express how much joy your comments bring me. Thank you!
> 
> Until next time, cheers!


	11. Letters

Arya had been missing for four days. Ned was beside himself. Bound to his duties as Hand to the King, he could not go looking for her himself. He may have remained at Robert’s side, but his heart was with the men looking for his daughter. He had confessed to Sansa that he hoped his men found her before the King’s men did. His friend, Robert, was not the same man alongside whom he had fought at the Trident. There was no knowing who had more sway over the King’s Guard: The King or Queen Cersei.

In the end it was Jory, captain of the Stark household’s guard who found Arya and returned her to the rest of the travel party, at a modest castle a half-day’s ride away from the Trident. Much to Ned and Sansa’s astonishment, he was not allowed to bring her to them. It seemed Queen Cersei had ordered she immediately be presented to the King for judgement.

The row on the banks of the Trident, followed by her sister’s disappearance had left Sansa in a state of silent agitation. She did her best to remain calm on the outside but, coupled with her melancholy, her efforts were taking a toll on her. She was plagued with headaches and her body ached all over. Sometimes, when she rose to her feet or climbed out of the wheelhouse, she felt a sharp stabbing sensation in her lower back. She cursed Joffrey and his cowardice with all her heart. She should have never agreed to go for a stroll with him. His pride be damned.

She followed in her Father’s heels, her hatred for Joffrey burning brighter than dragonfire. He was already at the audience chamber when they arrived, cowering behind his mother’s skirts, his arm in a sling made of silk. Preposterous! Yes, Nymeria had tackled him to the ground to protect Arya and the butcher’s boy but he was unharmed. He had done more harm to the butcher’s boy with his blade than Nymeria had done him.

“Arya!” she cried as she saw the girl caked in mud and sweat.

Arya made to run into her sister’s arms but a contemptuous look from Cersei made her stop in her tracks. She gave everyone gathered a true account of what passed at the Trident four days ago. Joffrey interjected and accused her of ordering Nymeria to attack him.

“Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!” Arya was ready to launch herself at him. Her Father restrained her.

“The girl is as wild and filthy as that animal of hers,” Cersei proclaimed, “Robert, I want her punished.”

Sansa pulled Arya close and shielded her. Her angry glare at Cersei and Joffrey did not go unnoticed.

Embarrassed, annoyed and, in dire need of a drink, King Robert wished to put this matter to bed. He asked Ned to discipline his daughter as he saw fit and said he would do the same with Joffrey.

Cersei was not satisfied with her husband’s solution. “And what of the beast that savaged our son?”

Arya grew rigid in Sansa’s arms. Jory was quick to intervene. “We found no trace of the wolf in our search.”

“I would have that wolf’s pelt laid out on my bed before sundown,” Cersei snapped.

“Woman, there is no wolf!” Robert rolled his eyes.

“We have a wolf,” Cersei said, looking at Sansa. “And I will not have any more beasts attacking my son.”

“Lady is innocent,” Sansa bellowed, her voice trembling.

“Lady wasn’t even there,” Arya added, “You leave her alone.”

“I can’t risk my son’s safety.” Cersei looked to Robert, “Have Ser Illyn Payne take care of it.”

Ned was helpless. He implored his friend, “Robert, please don’t do this.”

“Enough! A direwolf is no beast for a highborn lady. If it is a pet your daughter wishes to raise, get her a proper pup.”  He would hear no more. He got up and left for the banquet hall.

Sansa was not sure if she had heard correctly. Perhaps she did not understand. Surely they didn’t mean Lady. Surely her Father, a man of justice and honor, wouldn’t allow the execution of an innocent. Her shoulders seized and a paralyzing pain shot down her back.

“There’s no need to call Ser Illyn Payne,” her Father said gravely, “The pup is of the North. Jory, bring Ice to the guardhouse.”

“Father, you can’t do this!” Arya pulled at his arm. “Sansa left Lady with the Hound because Joffrey was too afraid to have her so close. You can’t do this! Lady didn’t do anything!”

Her Father looked from Arya to her.  His eyes said what his words couldn’t. _Forgive me, if you can_. Why was it that wherever she went, she could not escape that look? First it was Jon. Now it was Father.

He left without another word. Tears streamed down Sansa’s face but she could not utter a cry. Screaming would make everything real. Screaming would give way to…

Sansa gasped in anguish as pain clutched her stomach in a vice grip. Wet warmth soaked her smallclothes and trickled down her leg. She gathered her skirts and roughly tucked it between her pressed legs.

Dumbfounded, Arya inched closer to her, afraid she might break if she came to close. “Sansa? Sansa, what’s wrong?”

“No—I need to…Septa Mordane. I need Septa Mordane. I can’t—“ She darted to her chambers and pulled her skirts  up. A thin stream of blood had stained her stockings and the stain on her small clothes was spreading with every passing moment.

“No, no, no!”

Pulling the garment off, she desperately spooned the thickened blood up her legs to where it flowed from. Arya, who had found Septa Mordane, froze at the sight of her bloody hands between her legs.

“Child, what in the name of the Seven are you doing?”

“I can’t— I need to put it back. I’m bleeding. I have to — I have to send a raven. Septa, you have to make it stop. MAKE IT STOP!”

“Lady Sansa,” Septa Mordane edged towards her slowly so as not to startle her, “shedding your moon’s blood is a sign of good health. It is a sign you will bear healthy children for the Prince one day.”

“I know what it means!” Sansa wept, “It’s been more than a moon’s turn. Please, just make it stop. _Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!_ ”

She had forgotten how to breathe. Growing lightheaded, she lost her footing. Septa Mordane caught her and helped her onto the bed.

“Alright, that’s enough now,” the septa said sternly.

“Septa, please,” Sansa sobbed through her labored breaths. “Just make it stop.”

The septa sighed. “Alright, I’ll get you something. But only if you stop crying, understood?”

Sansa’s lips curled in a small smile. The effort pained her head and she winced. She flattened her palms over her belly, willing the pain away. It didn’t listen. It simply continued to stab away at her insides until she was too tired to fight it. Septa Mordane returned with the promised medicine. Sansa was too far gone to realize it was just milk of poppy.

She dreamt she lay on fresh grass under the open night sky. Heavy footsteps approaching made her raise her head. It was her Father. A rush of happiness made her soar. She hadn’t seen a familiar face in so long. Her Father didn’t seem to share her happiness. He could hardly look her in the eye. He had a magnificent blade in hand. Ice. It was larger than Bran and possibly heavier. She would never be able to wield it. Or raise it above her head the way her Father did now. Or swing it down as he was about to.

The night sky was robbed of all its stars as he brought it down on her. She should have died but she went on feeling. Blood trickling down her neck. Blood pooling between her legs. With the stars disappeared the part of her that rooted her in the north. She was a shell of Sansa Stark. A Ghost. Nothing more.

***

Jon had taken to staring at fires since he left Winterfell. In the flames, he saw a great fire starting somewhere beyond the wall, consuming the Wall and Castle Black and then spreading all the way down to Winterfell where it would burn his memories and Lord Robb Stark to ashes. He let his mind conjure the image: Robb’s charred body. Catelyn Stark wailing over it. His father, no, uncle, Ned riding home too late, repenting for all his wrongs. Jon would rip himself away from his treacherous imagination when he caught himself dwelling too long. The guilt clobbering him robbed him of all sleep.

Robb had been a loving and caring brother to him. It was shameful to even consider the thought of harm befalling him. But every moment at Castle Black with the men residing in it was a painful reminder that Robb Stark was now the Lord of Winterfell and he, Jon Snow, was associating with thieves, poachers, rapists and traitors.

He was easily the best of them; quick and deft with his sword, smart and, learned in keeping the books. He was a Lord amongst the lowest of commoners. Much as he tried to be grateful for the life he was granted at Winterfell, he could not forgive Eddard Stark for condemning him to a life worse than that of a common bastard. He had been promised honor and respect. What he got instead were lice-infested comrades with no honor for themselves, let alone recognition for that of others. The cold did nothing to alleviate his misery either.

He had thought he could spend the rest of his days here at the Wall. That was before he actually knew what it was like to live this far north, of course. Nowadays, the only thing that kept him from bashing each and every one of his opponents to a pulp in the training yard was the promise of hearing from Sansa again.

He dared not get his hopes up but, frightening as it was at first, the thought of Sansa carrying his babe made his heart fill with warmth and made it easier to confront the realities of Castle Black. Late at night, under his furs, it even stirred his loins.

He visited Maester Aemon at the rookery every morning to see if her raven had come. Surely she would know by now. Perhaps she was still in the midst of arranging passage to Essos without catching Father’s eye.

As the days wore on, he worried about Sansa being able to get word to him at all. King’s Landing was a treacherous place with spies lurking in every corner. What if her letter to him had somehow been intercepted? What if she was being punished for conspiring with a Brother of the Night’s Watch.

He wasn’t a sworn Brother yet, however. And he had no intention of being one either.

 _Time._ Jon wished he’d had more time with Sansa to talk things over. They could have made a code to communicate with, one that only they understood. He distinctly remembered Sansa mentioning her mother and Aunt Lyssa doing something of the sort as younger girls. It had been one night in bed when she had snuck into his chambers earlier than usual. They had made love and spent hours tangled in one another’s arms talking about all sorts of things before sleep took hold of them.

Jon’s heart ached at the memory. Sansa had ruined him with her attentions. He had all but forgotten what it felt like to be alone in the world. Admittedly he had made friends in Grenn and Sam but they could never give him the safety and compassion that Sansa did. He could never open his heart to them the way he did to her. There was so much he wished to say to her every night. It felt as though the weight of the world could be lifted from his shoulders if he could just speak to her.

Having acquired some parchment, quill and ink from Maester Aemon, Jon settled down by the dying fire in the common hall after supper. If he could not speak to Sansa, he would pretend he could through his quill.

“ _My Sweet Beloved,”_ he wrote. It would not do to incriminate her by addressing her by name. He asked after her health, if everything was as they’d hoped, and he gave her an account of all that had come to pass since they’d last seen one another at the grove near Winterfell.

_You should see the Wall, my love. It would be worth braving the snow and cold and lackluster food and low-born company. It is more grand than anything Old Nan could have described in the nursery. They say it is enchanted to keep the Others at bay. Old wives’ tales, all of it, but charming none the less and, a wonder to look upon._

He had written down every detail: The Brothers’ regimen from dawn to dusk, the living arrangements, the Brothers themselves…but his heart still felt heavy.

_I never truly knew what it meant to be a bastard until I came to Castle Black. I remember when I was safe behind the walls of Winterfell, I would balk at deserters who had wandered into southron lands. Why would a man abandon such a noble calling? Now I know. There is nothing noble about this place. ‘Tis but a pit of discarded vermin from the far reaches of Westoros. But understand that it is not my place in the world that angers me so much. It is that, my whole life, I was made to believe I could be more than a mere pestilence to the world at large. I cannot abide by the cruelty of dangling a succulent boar’s leg in front of a starving beggar only to snatch it away from him as he is about to sink his teeth into it. Why is it so, my love? Why is it that the downtrodden are given no means to better their lives? Why must one’s birth decide what is to become of them for the rest of this long, cold and lonely existence?_

_Perhaps I should not think ill of the men here or the duty the Night’s Watch upholds for the realm, for that matter but I cannot carry on in such company or in such conditions. I was given a peek into the joys life have to offer and I will not let the circumstances of my birth dictate whether I am allowed to possess them or not. It matters not that I am a bastard. Where we will go, nobody will know. I give you my word. Know this, my love, I will find you, love you, marry you and live without shame, Others take anyone who deny us._

“Jon?” a meek voice interrupted his charged quill.

Jon instinctively hunched over the parchment to block it from view. “What is it, Sam?”

“You’re up on the Wall tonight.”

“Aye, I’ll be up in a bit.” He looked down at the parchment, unsure whether it had helped in lightening his heart. Folding it up, he carefully tucked it in his jerkin and flung his cloak over his shoulders.

***

A horn sounded from the southern watch tower. Then came calls to raise the gate. Visitors were not common at Castle Black.

In the training yard, Jon’s attention strayed. He was rewarded for it with a blow to the head from a wooden sword. Had it been any other day, he would have retaliated until his opponent was flat on his back, but it mattered not today for the rider entering Castle Black with two destriers in tow was a member of the guard of House Stark.

“Alyn!” Jon cracked a smile, the first he could remember since leaving Winterfell. He embraced the guard in a brotherly hug. “I thought you’d gone south with Father. What brings you so far off course?”

“Lord Stark sent me.” His tone shot a chill through Jon. “Others take those Lannisters! One scratch on that excuse of a boy prince and your sister’s direpup paid for it with her life. Lord Stark had no choice. He did it himself. Ordered me to take her remains back to Winterfell. Sweet Sansa was not the same after that. If the golden-haired boy was in possession of a real man’s pecker he’d never allow such a thing. Especially not to his betrothed.”

“Father laid his sword on Lady?” _Sansa was betrothed to Joffrey?_

“Aye, your sister was heartbroken. But she was ever the proper lady about it. When she heard I was riding north to give Lady a proper northern burial, she told me that you must be miserable out here in the blistering cold. Said, if it wasn’t too much trouble, that she’d be grateful if I came to see you. And give you this.”

He reached inside his cloak and pulled out an ivory box with a crow’s spread feathers carved onto it.

“Thank you, Alyn,” Jon said, tracing the engravings with his fingertips. He undid the latch and opened it to find a pair of black gloves, velvet on the outside and sable on the inside. A white and silver wolf, Sansa’s handiwork no doubt, adorned the wrists.

“I reckon that’ll be the finest clothing you own, Snow.”

“She didn’t give you anything else? A letter or a message?”

Alyn shook his head.

Jon nodded and feigned a smile. It already feels a life-time since he last smiled in earnest. “No matter. Come. You’ll be in need of food and drink.”

That night, Jon retreated to the barracks earlier than usual. He glared at the box, reprimanding himself for setting all his hopes on a message that, by the looks of it, would never come. Sam joined him some time later and observed him brooding before speaking.

“That’s an awfully nice gift. It must be nice having people who still think of you. I know I, and a lot of other lads here, would give anything to know we’re still remembered in the life we once had.”

“I’m not ungrateful, Sam. I was just expecting something else, that’s all.”

Sam reached out his hand to have a closer look at the box. He tried the gloves on. “It’s beautiful workmanship. The lady who made this must be very fond of you.”

Jon’s heart ached. “Aye, she’s been known to be.”

“What’s this here?” Sam inspected the box. _Click_. “Jon, there’s something here.”

Sitting up, Jon looked at the box. It had a false bottom that Sam had managed to pry open. Underneath, to his elation, was a piece of parchment. Snatching it from Sam, he hurried over to the nearest torch, steadied his breath and took in the sight of Sansa’s neat hand:

_Beloved Crow,_

_I hope with all my heart this letter finds you in good health and that the northern winds have not bent you to their whims. I know you are capable of standing up to the most calamitous of forces, be it the wind or fate itself. Despite knowing all this, it pains me to share what I am about to with you for I am not quite as strong as you are._

_As certain as the moon’s turn is the star that bleeds. I was wrong in my design and I cannot give you that which I promised. I still beseech you to hold your end of the bargain for I fear I may not survive the alternative. I am betrothed to another and it is entirely impossible to overturn this decision in a proper manner without jeopardizing the safety of our family. If we keep to what we spoke of before we parted, neither need come to fruition._

_I eagerly await for us to be united once more. New Gods and Old, may it not be too long._

_Your Beloved._

Jon’s breaths rattled his chest as he reread the letter again and again. Sansa was betrothed to Prince Joffrey. Lord Eddard Stark had deemed vile Joffrey a more appropriate husband for Sansa than him. If he wasn’t so humiliated, he would have laughed.

Sansa would be Queen of Westoros someday. And he would be a forgotten bastard freezing his balls off at the edge of the world.

He couldn’t believe the lies his uncle had fed Sansa to get her to agree to the betrothal. He was King Robert’s dearest friend. What possible danger could befall the Starks if Sansa refused Joffrey? He thought of his uncle’s acts of kindness towards him, his lessons in exercising duty, being a man of honor.

_All lies!_

In the end, it never mattered how good a man’s character was. Power was the greatest truth of them all. No father would choose a bastard, no matter how high-born, over the goddamn prince of the realm.

Jon read the letter one last time. If he were to steal Sansa from King’s Landing and run away to Essos, he would only reinforce what everybody already said about bastards. It would only prove Ned Stark was right all along. Well, he would not give him that satisfaction.

It was the most he could do sitting all the way away at Castle Black. He raised the letter to the torch’s flame and burned it. Staring at the blackening parchment he saw it again—the great fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, alright that was harder to write than I'd anticipated. I'm ready to have the babies back together right about now. So...Time jump next chapter, yes?
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. This would be no fun without you guys!


	12. Six Years Later

His eyes weren’t icy blue. They were still grey. Jon supposed there was some comfort to be had from that.

The reflection looking back at him was more or less the same. The title to go with it was another matter. From Eddard Stark’s bastard to sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch to Lord Commander Snow to lifeless corpse to abomination defying the natural order, he had borne a great many names. But now he looked for the man he could be. He was through with titles. All he wished for now was a clean break.

“What will you do now?” Dolores Edd’s voice tore him away from his introspection.

Jon was in the midst of gathering his belongings in the Lord Commander’s chambers. “Go south,” he smiled wryly, “get warm.”

Edd wasn’t amused. “You can’t just leave. Ramsay Bolton’s threat looms large over the Night’s Watch.”

“You were there when I spoke to Melisandre. She said nobody matching Arya’s description was brought into Stannis’ camp. The Bolton bastard’s threats are empty.” He did not care if he now called himself the warden of the North. All he had ever known was lost, Others take Winterfell and the Night’s Watch. None of it meant anything to him anymore.

“You know what’s out there. When the Long Night falls the Night’s Watch is the realm’s first line of defense.”

“Aye, and what would you have me do about it?”

“Lead us! Our numbers are dwindling. We need the combined strength of the southern houses behind us if we’re to even dream of victory.”

“I did what I thought was right and my own brothers murdered me.” He thought his ribcage would unhinge itself from remembering how the blades plunged into his flesh. He passed his fingers over his heart where Olly had applied the killing stroke. “I pledged my life to the Night’s Watch and I gave my life for the Night’s Watch. My watch has ended.”

Edd’s continued insistence was cut off by a cacophony of excitement from the east gate. “That’ll be the lads come from Eastwatch with the supplies.” He looked at Jon and shook his head. “Now’s not the time to let pride cloud your judgement, my friend. Think on your way forward. Take your time.” He rushed out of the chambers barking orders for all the younger lads to go help unload the supplies.

Thinking was the last thing Jon wished to do. Thinking would remind him that Arya was still in the clutches of Ramsay Bolton, son to the monster who killed Robb and Catelyn, tyrant who flayed his detractors and burned them and, commander of the northern armies. The odds of saving Arya alone with a few wildlings were astronomical. Thinking would lead to him caring about the growing threat of the undead beyond the Wall. Edd was right. The Night’s Watch needed more men and for that it needed to rally help from the southern houses.

He had done his best to explain to his brothers that Bolton had to be removed in order to obtain the help they needed but for many, the Others were but snarks and grumkins. They saw lies in his desperate appeal. They saw a brother abusing his power to save his dear sister. So they stabbed him again and again and again.

All was lost and he was denied the small mercy of dying. He had nothing more to offer the realm just as the realm had nothing left to give him. He didn’t know how long this new life would give him. If he had believed Gods existed, he would have pleaded they make it short.

 _I know you are capable of standing up to the most calamitous of forces, be it the wind or fate itself,_  he heard in his head. Strange words. Where had he heard them? The Red Woman perhaps. It definitely wasn’t Ygritte. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._ Uncle Benjen or maybe Maester Aemon. No. _Kill the boy, Jon Snow._ _Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born._

He saw it then. A courtyard in the heart of Winterfell, a grey-white pup scurrying to a maiden reading on a bench, burrowing under her skirts. Her blue eyes popped wide in surprise. _Why, hello there. Where did you come from?_ Giggles filled the air, music to his ears, and her auburn hair, catching the summer sun’s light, stung his eyes.

Tears fell despite his attempts to squeeze them away with clenched fists. He should have gone to her. He should have saved her or died trying. Gods, nobody even knew what became of her body. It all seemed like a lie. First Uncle Ned, then Robb and then…As his blood was staining the snow underneath, he had hoped to see them all again but he found nothing but darkness. He would never see her again. All because he had let his pride shirk the undeserved love she bestowed upon him.

Edd cleared his throat, visibly unsettled at seeing his Lord Commander in such a delicate state. “There’s an umm…”

Jon took rein of his shaky breaths and dried his eyes.

“One of the horses arrived from Eastwatch is dead.”

“Edd, I’m no longer your Lord Commander. Do as you please with it. The lads could use a decent stew tonight.”

“It’s not the horse. It’s whose horse it is. She wishes to speak to you and only you.”

Jon grew rigid. Melisandre had seen a vision of his sister arriving on a dying horse. “Is she wearing a grey cloak?”

“I wasn’t paying attention, my lord. It may have been blue.”

“Arya!” Jon exclaimed, rushing past Edd and hurrying downstairs to the east gate. Bypassing excited crows who had not seen a woman in years, he himself felt the beginnings of a smile break his slate of solemnity. He caught sight of a hulking blond woman in knight’s armor. Incredible! She towered over half the men milling about her.

The crows cleared a path for him as they saw him approach, giving him an unobstructed view of the dead mare’s rider.

His smile died in its conception. A dead weight dropped down his chest and crashed into the pit of his stomach. No, this was cruel trick. A hallucination that would dissipate if he ventured too close.

She was kissed by fire. Dirty and weary from travel, perhaps too gaunt but still beautiful, her stance sure and regal. If he listened hard enough, he knew he would hear her soft laughter travelling from the far reaches of his past, taunting him.

He edged closer. She choked back a dry sob and lunged at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She was real. Sansa was here in his arms, alive. Lifting her off her feet, he squeezed her to him, wishing to hold her to him for as long as he may live.

She drew away and passed a thumb over the scar over his right eye. Jon’s mind was in too much of a haze to narrow his attention to the changes in her face. All he knew was that he knew this face and he recognized the warmth in his heart under the gaze of its blue eyes. He instinctively leaned in to kiss her, only to be stopped with a firm grip to his shoulder.

“My lord,” Sansa whispered, with a sad smile.

***

Jon had removed himself from Sansa’s embrace to have Edd order chambers and baths be prepared for her and Brienne. He couldn’t bring himself to look her in the eye after that and Sansa didn’t have it in her to ease him into easy banter. Too much had happened, too many promises were broken, to make trivial inquiries of health and the weather.

Once alone in her chambers, Sansa stripped out of her travel clothes and got into the washtub one of the young crows had filled with scorching hot water. She lay there after she finished scrubbing herself and soaping her hair, loosening her taught muscles and dozing. A knock at the door awakened her.  

“Who is it?”

“Melisandre. Red Priestess of the Lord of Light.”

“I’m not decent at the moment.”

The crimson-haired woman entered without further permission. “We are both women, my lady. You have nothing to hide.” Shutting the door behind her, she stood before Sansa with her hands entwined over her stomach. “Your hair is brighter than I had seen in the flames. It was darker.”

Sansa had no idea what she spoke of. “Perhaps because it _was_ darker. The color wore off during my voyage north.”

“The water’s getting cold.” She handed her a drying cloth.

Sansa accepted it and rose to dry herself. She felt Melisandre’s eyes roaming her naked body, thought it strange, but showed no discomfort. “How may I help you, my lady?”

“That is not yet known but still, as you hold the power to bring light into this world, I thought it best we made our acquaintances.”

“I’m afraid I’m not very learned when it comes to your Lord of Light, my lady. I expect He’s quite different from the Old Gods or the Seven.” Sansa pulled on a woolen shift before wearing her dress.

“Perhaps. I have seen much in my time and I am practiced in the lore of king’s blood. A trained eye knows a vessel that will bear kings when it sees it.”

Sansa scoffed. “I’m afraid I was thrown off that ship long ago. King Joffrey cast me aside for Margaery Tyrell. And now she is Tommen’s Queen. Besides, I have no desire to return to King’s Landing. Nor do I aspire to be anyone’s Queen.”

A knowing smirk alighted Melisandre’s face. Her eyes sought something in Sansa’s, piercing her so deep, Sansa was compelled to look away.

“Mother of wolves,” Melisandre proclaimed. She closed the distance between them and splayed her palms over her belly. “The power to create life is no trifling matter. When the Long Night is upon us, we must all do our part and, if this realm is to ever see spring again, you must do yours.”

She moved to leave. Before she shut the door behind her she said over her shoulder, “I was wrong in reading the flames. I thought the girl arriving at Castle Black would be a sister to the Lord Commander. Little did I think…”

She left without another word.

***

They took supper in the common hall with the rest of the Night’s Watch. Sansa did her best to return the brothers’ attention and flattery with grace and dignity. They regaled her with stories of Jon’s time with the Night’s Watch: the raid at Craster’s Keep, the time they thought him killed by wildlings, the siege of Castle Black, Hardhome and finally, the mutiny and his subsequent resurrection by the Red Lady.

Sansa listened, enthralled. _There is magic here_ , a long dormant part of her said. The child in her wished to gasp and squeal as she had once done in the nursery when Old Nan told stories. She wanted to exchange excited looks with Jon, succumb to his silent pleas to just look at him but she remained rigid, looking only at the orator recounting his version of events. She had not come here to slip into old habits. She had come by the threat of her undead mother and the pleas of a gallant knight who had a promise to keep. She had come to escape another dead betrothed and reclaim her true name.

But no amount of self-assurance had prepared her for the moment she laid eyes on him again. He was a picture of her father, just as she had surmised when they were young but his eyes were still sweet and in want of affection like the boy she had loved. The boy she still loved.

The hour was late when Jon decided it was time for everyone to retire. He walked Sansa through the snow-filled courtyard to her chambers. Brienne, whose chambers were in the same tower, and Ghost followed behind. They passed the cage that carried men to the top of the Wall.

“I should like to go up there come morning,” Sansa broke the eerie silence, “See what’s beyond. My lord husband, Tyrion said he had the pleasure of relieving himself from the top.” She saw Jon clench his fists. His steps grew brisk. “He was a good man, the Imp. Better than his sister or nephew. He spoke well of you. He told me that you had taken up the responsibility of training all the lads yourself. I can see he wasn’t lying.”

“He seemed a man true to his word,” Jon retorted in a clipped tone.

Once they had bid Brienne goodnight, Jon led Sansa to the Lord Commander’s chambers and threw a few more logs into the hearth for a warmer fire. Ghost curled up nearby, settling in for the night. Sansa warmed her hands and observed the flames. Jon poured her a tankard of ale and joined her side.

“Gods, does the chill ever go away?” Sansa took a sip of the ale and crinkled her nose.

Jon chuckled softly and covered her hand with his. “You get used to it. There aren’t any hot springs keeping the walls of Castle Black warm, I’m afraid.”

Sansa looked down at their joined hands. She wanted to weep. Sliding hers out from underneath his, she buried it under her cloak. “Your men, my lord, they’re not the kind of warriors I’d imagined manning the Wall.”

Jon looked at her steely expression for a long moment before lowering his eyes like an injured pup. “They’re not warriors at all. They came here farmers, common thieves, rapists, poachers and gamblers. I’ve done my best to prepare them for what’s coming but—“

“Forgive me, my lord, but it seems that you do not even have sufficient numbers to man this behemoth. I spotted perhaps one guard per post on my journey from Eastwatch.”

“Aye. But that’s Edd’s headache now. We’ll take a ship south from Eastwatch and head for Essos once you’re well and rested.”

Sansa swallowed her incredulous scoff. She saw nothing but red. “You’re six years too late for that,” she hissed.

“Sansa, I was a green boy. I was humiliated and so angry that I – it’s not too late. We can still have the life you dreamed for us.”

“And what makes you think I still believe in that dream? What do you know of all the dreams I’ve seen shattered or, the humiliation I’ve endured or the anger and hate I’ve harbored all these years?”

“Then tell me!” Jon drew closer, “Sansa, let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, my lord. I need your help to make things right.  We are beyond the privilege of having anything for ourselves. Our sister is being held by a monster who soils everything Father stood for. Our brothers are missing. The realm is tearing itself apart and you say there’s a greater threat approaching. What is the meaning of all our suffering if we do nothing?”

“Tell me, _my lady_ ,” Jon said through gritted teeth, “What would you have me do? Sneak into Winterfell unseen and steal Arya from the Bolton bastard’s bed and expect him to take it as a jest?”

“How many Wildlings do you have in your command?”

“They are _not_ under my command. They don’t kneel to kings.”

“You rescued them and granted them sanctuary. They owe you their lives.”

“A few hundred Wildlings won’t be enough to defeat the Boltons’ forces.”

“Then we will rally the north behind us.”

“The Boltons have already swayed the north in their favor.”

Sansa shook her head, doing her best to ignore the dangerous proximity of Jon’s face to hers. “They are dictated by fear and uncertainty. They’ll follow you when they see you wish to restore the north to its roots. Besides, you’ll have a true Stark by your side. They won’t doubt your intentions.”

Jon’s eyes darkened and narrowed. He thrust his fingers into her hair and drew her to him by the neck. “Not only would you have me wield a sword again but you would also parade us before the world again as brother and sister?”

His warm breath on her face made a drunkard of her. One slight movement would have her lips touching his. He went on coaxing her to give in, took pride in the slight glaze that spread across her eyes. Squeezing them shut she pushed him away and returned her attention to the hearth.

“I can’t stop you if you really wish to go to Essos and start over. I might have too had I not seen Father’s head being taken.” Her vision blurred. “You know, I still think Robb is alive somewhere. It’s easier when you haven’t seen it for yourself. It could all just be a lie or a rumor or a bad dream. But that’s not how it is with me. And I know my soul will never know peace so long as my family’s murderers still live.”

She stood up and tightened her cloak around her. “It’s late, my lord. I’ll take my leave.”

“My lady, I’ll show you to your chambers,” Jon rose to his feet.

“I know the way.” Her tone was final.

Afraid a moment closer would have her begging for his embrace, she strode out of his chambers, arms coiled about her torso. The whirlwind of anger inside her quelled and silent tears burned her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Eeeee this was so much fun to write. A whole lot more fun than last chapter. I always wanted to get into Jon's head post-resurrection. As always, thank you for reading and leaving lovely comments. You guys are the best!


	13. Become a Stark

Sansa had set out from the Vale with an ironclad resolve to keep relations with Jon as familial as possible. She had endured much in the past six years, and her skin was thicker than it was when she left Winterfell, but none of that held a candle to the naïve yearning being in Jon’s presence reignited. Her training made it easy to hide her true feelings, however. Despite feeling Jon’s heated gaze on her every moment they were together, she succeeded in acting appropriately sisterly. If there was some awkwardness, those around felt it a consequence of being estranged for so long.

 _No, Jon Snow,_ she said to herself again and again, _I will never let you hurt me again._

Insistent on rekindling what they had in their past lives, Jon took some effort, muted though it was, to show her affection. He asked after her whenever they had a moment to themselves, stole a few brushes of the hand, and once even dared to tuck a wayward strand of her auburn hair behind her ears.  But as the days passed, her stony exterior began to grate on his nerves. He busied himself with preparations for the smooth handover of power before leaving the Wall, and plans for routes and provisions for their journey south.

Sansa had already dispatched Brienne to court the Blackfish. The rest of her waking hours were spent thinking on which other Northern houses would join their cause. The majority of the north had pledged their allegiances to House Bolton. Some of them did so for personal gain, some did it for lack of a better choice. She and Jon needed to think carefully on which houses to trust and court, and do so fast. There was no knowing what the Bolton Bastard was doing to Arya.

Amidst the chaos of strategizing with the council, Sansa’s hands frantically tended to her needlework. She made herself a northern travel cloak, as well as a few dresses. One of them bore a silver embroidered direwolf sigil. For Jon, she made a cloak like Father’s, and tried to make a few tunics and a new doublet. It had been a long time since she had seen Jon without his cumbersome layers. He certainly seemed bigger than before but she couldn’t be sure. It seemed a trifling matter at first, but try as she did to get him alone to take his measurements, important details regarding the impending journey or qualms of nervous crows always sprang up and took priority.  

With less than three days to go before they left the Wall, Sansa finally knocked on his door early one morning, long before Satin, Jon’s squire, was due to wake him up.

“Come in,” his groggy voice sounded from within.

Sansa entered, fisting the unstitched garments in one hand and cradling her sewing box with the other.

“Gods boy, I’m the Lord Commander no more. You don’t need to be waking a man at this ungodly hour.”

Sansa laid her things down and stoked the fire. “It’s me.”

Eyes flying open, Jon sat up. “Sansa, what’s—? Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s alright.” Sansa ignored the heat creeping up her neck. “You’re so busy all the time, I thought this the best time to ask this of you.”

“What is it you need, my lady?”

Sansa unfurled one of the tunics for him to see and smiled. “I forgot your measurements.”

“Oh.” Jon’s voice was breezy. His restrained smile jabbed her heart. “I reckon they’re not exactly the same anyway.” He pawed at his furs in search of something.

Sansa casually turned away on realizing he’d reached for his small clothes. She found the courage to look at him again when feet padded towards her.

“Really, Sansa you didn’t have to,” Jon said, studying the garment she handed him, “I’ve got plenty of clothes already.”

“The black wool and furs of a sworn Brother to the Night’s Watch. You’ll be meeting the lords of the north as Ned Stark’s son, and true warden to the north. You—we’ll both need to look our part if we are to gain their trust.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed. He reached behind him and pulled off his tunic.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. It was not the rigid plains of his muscles or the primal hunger his bare skin awakened in her, for she had harbored vivid memories of their time together during their time apart. It was the brutal gashes, purple and crusted and, so obviously fatal, that marred his chest. Up until now the mutiny had seemed like a flight of fancy but the reality of it struck her now. She could have arrived at Castle Black to news of his death. She could have been all alone.

“Sansa…” Jon’s voice pulled her out of her stupor. Wearing the billowing tunic, he stretched his arms for her to proceed.

“Sorry, I just—“ Sansa rustled through her box for her pin cushion.

“Unsightly, aren’t they?” He smirked, “At least one good will come from winter coming. Less reason to undress and frighten the faint of heart.”

Sansa deftly applied pins to areas that needed tightening. “Does it hurt, my lord?”

“There’s no pain, no, but the wound it inflicted runs deeper. It’ll be in me so long as I live, however long that may be this time.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what was it like? Dying?”

Jon stared off into the distance, eyebrows furrowed in an attempt to ward off the memory. “I was afraid. I felt…betrayed by the Gods. That they could make me endure such terrible things, and have me do such terrible things, only to repay me as such. And when I woke, rather than be grateful, I was angry. It destroyed everything I stood for as a man but there it is, I was angry.”

Gruesome images of her mother…No, not her mother—the one they called Stoneheart, flashed through Sansa’s mind. They had brought her back to life but she had become a monster. “How is it the Red Lady brought you back?”

Jon rubbed his eyes and chuckled. “I asked her the same thing. I try not to put much stock in what she says. She has been known to be wrong.”

“You don’t think she was right in bringing you back?”

“I’d done my duty the way I saw fit. They didn’t, so they took my life. What good am I returned to life.”

“You were returned to take your rightful place as Warden of the North.”

“Only a Stark can have that title. I am no Stark.”

“Please don’t start this again.”

“I gave my life telling lie upon lie,” Jon grabbed her hand, preventing her from turning her back to him, “I followed the inane laws of man, their custom, and acted upon honor. If there is any reason I was given a second chance at life it was to live as I am. As a man with the woman he loves by his side.”

“My lord, I will always be by your side,” Sansa said, placing a gentle hand on his. His grip on her slackened. “What are we without duty? What will we live for? We have a family who need us. Arya needs us. Bran and Rickon, wherever they are—they need us. The realm needs us and I understand your anger but I also know your kindness, and I’ve seen much of this cruel world, my lord. It needs a man like you.”

She handed him the doublet to try on.

“I don’t know if this moss color will suit me,” Jon smoothed the material over his shoulders.

“It suits you quite well,” Sansa said, pushing pins into the fabric.

He drew out his breath, deep and dulcet to the ear, making Sansa’s hands tremble. “You once said that our being together was the most natural thing in the world.”

Sansa’s hands stilled. Had she said such a thing? “That was a long time ago, my lord.”

“I thought I’d locked them away someplace dark—my happiest memories in Winterfell. It pained me too much to think of them after coming here. But sometimes they break free. And you know what I remember?”

“What?”

She heard a smile in Jon’s voice. “I remember you once telling me you wouldn’t come to my side even if I was stabbed in the heart.”

Once she was satisfied with Jon’s fitting, Sansa hurried from Jon’s chambers, at war with herself. His words endeared him to her. Though she restrained herself, the urge to embrace him felt like the most natural reaction. The rift between them was what felt unnatural, yet as a learned strategist, it was what made sense to her. Still, the further she got from Jon’s chamber, the less compelled she was to hide her true feelings. By the time she reached her work station, she had a lively spring to her step.

She planned to make some headway in her needlework before the day’s council meeting. Moments after settling in, a tall figure darkened her doorway. She was a tall wildling girl with long honey-colored hair cascading down her shoulders to her waist.

“May I help you, good lady?” Sansa rose to her feet.

“You are Lord Snow’s sister?”

“Yes, I am Sansa of House Stark.”

“I am Val. I was told by Tormund Giantsbane to make your acquaintance. He said you’d be in need of some company who’s not keen to steal into your bed.”

“I anybody would dare steal into the Lord Commander’s sister’s bed, but that was very kind of Tormund…and you. Please have a seat.”

Val eyed her needlework with equal measures of curiosity and disdain. “You were decorating your garb.”

“Only stitching Jon a few clothes for the ride south.” Sansa gave her a trite smile, “The embroidery is just something that brings my heart some levity.”

“Us freefolk don’t have much time for such frivolity.”

“Yet you have clothes on your back. Tell me Lady Val, would you dismiss the one who makes clothes for your people so easily as you do me?”

“I was only saying the freefolk make things for practicality,” Val said coolly, her back straightening in defiance.

“I dare say a world where we are not allowed indulgences would be a bleak one indeed. When I feel blue I embroider, but my sister, Arya—she would have picked up a sword and trained with the boys.” Sansa beheld the fierce nature apparent in Val’s face. “You actually remind me of her, you know.”

Val studied her and lowered her voice. “Can I be plain with you, Sansa?”

Sansa set her work down and nodded, all ears.

“You won’t tell any of the freefolk?”

“Upon my honor.”

“I find all your southern customs frightening. Beyond the Wall, when you have a disagreement you settle it with your spear, face to face. Here—well, just look at what they did to Lord Snow. There’s no knowing what anybody’s thinking.”

“I understand what you mean,” Sansa said in genuine solidarity, “I spent the past six years cooped in the snake pit and I’m still unnerved by it.”

“We’re very proud, us freefolk.” Val’s posture was that of a leader, legs parted, and hand firmly planted on one knee. “And if anyone hears me say this I’ll be banished, but it’s got to be said. We’re living here now and we’ll have to make compromises…learn your ways. Winter is coming and the others will come with it. We won’t survive if you southerners cast us out.”

“Jon and I will do everything we can to make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“I was hoping you’d be willing to advise me if I need it.”

A smile lit up Sansa’s face. “You are both brave and wise, Val. I’d be honored to help you and your people.”

Val returned her smile and shook her head in disbelief. “You’re kind like him. Lord Snow, I mean.”

Shrugging, Sansa picked up her needlework again.

“I jest that it was a blessing he was killed and released from his vows,” Val chuckled, “A man as kind as him shouldn’t waste away in a place like this. He should have a woman, and father sons that’ll grow to be like him.”

A pang of pain jolted Sansa’s heart. Yes, before sailing to Eastwatch, she had resolved to maintain a sisterly bond with Jon. In the back of her mind she knew if all went well, and they won back Winterfell, Jon would need to marry for heirs. But she didn’t wish to think so far ahead.

“You’ll have to find him a good match once you’ve taken back your castle. That is, if his cock’s not wilted off already. It’s been years since he bedded that wilding girl.”

The needle drove itself into Sansa’s thumb, drawing blood, and an anguished gasp. “I’m fine,” she sucked her thumb, “What wildling girl?”

“She was kissed by fire…like you, come to think of it. They say she was a fierce bowman, seduced him to breaking his vows, and sated him so thorough he never wished to touch another girl again. They killed her during the siege of Castle Black. Some of my men saw him take her out beyond to burn her proper.” She knit her brows, “Are you sure you’re alright?”

The bleeding had slowed. Sansa rang her thumb to rid it of the pain. “Forgive me, I’m so rude. I completely forgot to offer you a drink.”

***

They had been on the move for near seven moons with little to show for it. While the Mountain Clans and what was left of Stannis’ forces had pledged their allegiance to Jon, the more powerful houses of the north were either allied with the Boltons or chose to remain neutral. Their best bet, Lord Glover, who lost his wife and babes to the Ironborn during their sack of the north, turned them away most unceremoniously. In addition to low morale across the region, Sansa also sensed the northern folk were suspicious of them, something she had not anticipated at all.

Every day of inaction meant another day Arya had to spend in the Bolton Bastard’s clutches. Jon’s defeatist attitude reared its head in private, and Sansa wondered if part of him hoped this would all draw to a close soon so he could flee south. She herself grew restless and considered sending word to Littlefinger to rally the knights of the Vale. He would come to their rescue, that much she didn’t doubt, but enlisting his help risked her her freedom. 

They came upon some luck at Bear Island, where, by virtue of Ser Davos, the young Lyanna Mormont pledged sixty-two men to their cause. It was not much but there was chance Mormont involvement may encourage other houses to follow suit.

One evening while at Bear Island, Lady Mormont summoned the Stark party to her audience chamber, long after everyone had retired for the night. Sansa hurried alongside Jon and Ser Davos, fearing news of an attack by the Boltons or the Ironborn. In the audience chamber, Lyanna Momont was accompanied by a woman who Sansa vaguely remembered from King Robert’s feast at Winterfell. The name was at the tip of her tongue but it made no sense for her to be present here, at this moment.

The woman rose to her feet, eyes cast down, and curtsied. “Lord Snow, Lady Sansa, you do not know good it is to see children of House Stark walking among us again.”

Jon looked at Sansa, ignorant of who she was. Sansa herself was convinced her mind was playing tricks on her.

“It has been a great many years since we last met,” the lady smiled, “You were both but children then. I am Sybel Glover, wife to the Lord of House Glover.”

“Lady Glover,” Sansa gasped in disbelief, “But we’d thought you killed by the Ironborn.”

“Yes, they’d held my children and myself hostage, but I managed to escape. The Ironborn are far too preoccupied seeing to Euron Greyjoy’s schemes to keep an eye on a defenseless woman and her babes.”

“Lord Glover will be overjoyed to hear of your survival,” Sansa beamed at Jon. He understood her happiness. With the lord’s lady wife and children restored, they had another opportunity to appeal for his troops.

“I’m afraid that will be a time yet. I cannot risk his safety by returning so soon, but I had to risk Ironborn pursuit to bring a message of vital importance to you. It must be fate, for I never thought I’d be giving you the message in person.”

“Is it Bran and Rickon?” Sansa blurted out. “Have there been any more sightings?”

“I’m afraid not, my lady. It is another matter. See, while at the Iron Islands, I’d been in correspondence with Robbett’s cousin, Galbert. He served your brother, Robb while he was King, and tells of a letter he wrote before the Red Wedding that he had sent to Oldtown onboard the Myraham.”

“What did it contain?”

“An official decree legitimizing Jon Snow as a Stark, making him his immediate successor.”

Jon inhaled sharply. His fists clenched. Sansa discreetly brushed the back of her palm to his.

“My lord,” Ser Davos spoke, “if I may, it is my understanding that your dear friend and Brother from the Watch now resides at Oldtown. Perhaps we can make a discreet request to unearth this document. It will make rallying the North against the Boltons far easier.”

Eyes shut, Jon tried to regain his composure as best as he could but failed. His nostrils flared when he spoke. “I thank you for going to such lengths to deliver this information to us, Lady Glover. I will arrange for ten able men to escort you home. On your return, I’d appreciate it if you appealed to your husband to provide us with whatever fighting men he can spare.”

Bowing his head, he stormed out. Sansa stayed behind a while longer out of courtesy. As she and Ser Davos took their leave, he voiced his concerns for her ears only:

“The boy loves his family well enough, yet this is the second time I’ve seen him squander an opportunity to be legitimized. You need to speak to him.”

And speak to him she would. She entered his chambers without announcing herself. Expecting her to do just that, he remained unfazed, and continued pacing like a caged animal.

“If you don’t check your behavior, people will find mroe reason not to follow you into battle.” Sansa’s words were cool, perhaps a little terse.

“No, I said I’d help you take back Winterfell. I said I’d do it for you and for Arya, and Bran and Rickon. I never said, I’d agree to _this_.”

“ _This_ is a Godsend! My lord, you are not blind to the northmen’s feelings for us. You are a bastard and I a Lannister, and so long as that remains we won’t have their full trust, Stark blood or no.”

Jon put a hand to the wall and leaned on it, trying to wipe the conflicting emotions from his face. “Bran and Rickon are still out there, alive. I won’t steal their rightful place from them.”

Sansa scoffed, her patience evaporating into thin air. “For once, will you give up the pretense that what you’re doing is noble? I know why you avoid taking the Stark name. It’s because, deep down, you still think there’s a chance you can claim your true name. It’s because you still harbor hope that you can have _me_. Well hear this, _brother,_ Others take the realm but a Targaryen will always be a mad traitor in Westoros, and a Targaryen will burn everything he holds dear to ashes. Is that what you want?”

“You know me so well, don’t you, Sansa?” Jon growled. He closed the distance between them, postured as though about to grab her and shake her. “How would you feel growing up without knowing a mother’s love, Sansa, hmm? How would you feel if the woman you wished would love you as a mother, one day accused you of pushing a brother you loved off a tower? How would you feel if you realized nobody you loved ever truly trusted you?”

Words didn’t come to Sansa.

“Aye,” Jon said, bitterness in his eyes, “you forgot didn’t you? Well I didn’t and even though she’s gone, I won’t ever let your Lady Mother’s words come true, you hear? I’ve fought worse than the bloody Boltons. We’ll make do with what we have.”

He turned his back to her. “You may take your leave, my lady.”

***

News of the Starks’s plans to retake Winterfell reached the Boltons. Ramsay Bolton sent ravens to every northern house threatening to flay their people and burn them if they allied with the Starks. A rider delivered Jon another pink letter, threatening to rape and kill both Arya and Sansa if his forces encroached. They still didn’t have enough men to match the might of the Bolton army. With their men growing agitated and nervous, Sansa saw no option but to enlist Littlefinger’s help without Jon’s consent. On learning of her indiscretion, Jon restricted her participation in small council meetings to a minimum.

The attack was moved ahead in time, to afford the Boltons little time to rally its armies. The small council finalized its battle plans the night before in Jon’s tent. Sansa watched from the sidelines in silence. Then, one by one, Jon’s advisor’s took their leave.

Sitting down, looking weary, Jon chanced a look at Sansa. Her scowl set his teeth on edge. “It’s done. This time tomorrow, we’ll know what our fates will be.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“I’m not accepting help from Petyr Baelish, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’ve had knowledge of the Boltons’ numbers since my time at the Vale. These are the same men responsible for the Red Wedding. They are cunning and conniving, and far more practiced at this kind of warfare than you are.”

“Aye,” Jon knocked his seat to the ground as he jumped to his feet, “and what have I been doing all my life? Playing with broomsticks? Have I not commanded the Night’s Watch? Have I not defended it from invasion? Have I not fought beyond the Wall, and faced the White Walkers?”

“Yes, I’m sure facing your wildling lover in battle was one of the greatest hurdles of your life, but your pride is going to cost us this battle!”

Sansa knew she’d gone too far. Jon was stunned with rage. His hands grasped the edge of the map table as he beheld her with a stern set to his jaw.

“Battles have been won against greater odds,” Jon said through gritted teeth.

“You can lower those odds by waiting a few days until the Knights of the Vale arrive.”

“Littlefinger will make us pay dearly if we accept his help. I won’t lose you to him.”

“What difference does it make? You’re going to lose it all anyway.” Sansa wheeled about to leave. “I suppose it’s for the best,” she said on her way, “the sooner you lose this war, the sooner we can all die and end this.”

That night, she tossed in her furs, playing her cruel words to Jon in her mind again and again. Part of her defended them, arguing he deserved it. Her softer, compassionate side—the one she was told to abandon time and time again—told her now was not the time for harsh words. Jon _had_ hurt her but she owed him her respect and support, if not as the man she loved, then as the man riding out to war to take back her home at her request.

When dawn neared, she wrapped herself in her cloak and made for Jon’s tent, where his new squire was helping him into his armor.

“I’d like to speak to Lord Snow alone,” Sansa announced herself.

Jon looked from her to the squire, and gave him permission to leave. He continued tightening the laces of his vambraces once they were alone.

“I’ve come to apologize…for what I said last night.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, my lady. You were only making your thoughts known to your subject. I expect that’s how they conduct themselves down south, at King’s Landing.” He didn’t allow his eyes to meet hers.

“It’s ill-advised to leave for battle angry. We were always told to smooth quarrels within the family before leaving the castle. When the snow falls and the white wind blows, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.” Her next words refused to come out, but she managed. “You’re my only family now.”

Jon’s face was awash in affection, the night’s anger dissipated. He drew closer but hesitated to come too close.

“Please live, my lord. Promise me, you’ll come back to me.”

“I promise,” he nodded, a small smile lifting the corner of his lips. “I will come back to you, Sansa, and I promise I won’t rest in peace until I’ve restored your home and your family to you.”

Sansa knew he couldn’t promise that, but his conviction was enough to have her believing for now. She took his hand in hers and covered it with her palm. An unnerving hopelessness flickered in his expression—the fright of a child in need of sanctuary. He leaned forward to capture her lips, only to touch his lips to her cheek. Resting his head on her shoulder, he imbibed her scent in resignation. When he straightened, he was Lord Snow once more.

He grabbed his belt and Longclaw and set out.

“Jon!”

Hurrying to him, Sansa cupped his face, pulled him to her and pressed her lips to his. She had forgotten how to kiss. As had he. They didn’t move. They just felt the other’s breath upon their faces and committed the moment to memory. Jon was in a daze when she released him.

“To hear you say my name again…” he swooned, “It’s like a breath of life.”

Without another word, he left. All she had left to do now, was wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!! Apologies for the long wait. My keyboard broke and, as ridiculous as this sounds, it set off my blues so I couldn't bring myself to write for a LONG time. I read all your lovely, thoughtful comments so keep them coming! As always, thank you for reading!


	14. A Trespasser and an Imposter

Sansa felt like a trespasser entering Winterfell again. She had dreamed of her birthplace many a time during her time away, but it was different now she was there, like she had never known the place to begin with. With the battle won, her work began in earnest. She didn’t know where to start or whether she was up to the task. Dread had her wishing the blood-soaked mud dirtying her skirts would swallow her. She was not the Stark who left six years ago. Would the woman she had become be enough for what lay ahead?

Jon’s men rounded up Bolton men and took them down to the dungeons to await trial. Healers in white aprons milled about tending to the wounded. The dead were carried out and  burned. Bolton banners dropped from the battlements above to be replaced by Stark banners. All was silent to Sansa’s ears. None of it seemed true. And if it was, she didn’t want it to be.

“Lady Stark,” a woman startled her. She was about forty, her head bowed as she reached for Sansa’s hand and kissed it. “I never thought I’d see a Stark walk the grounds of this castle again.”

“Lady Stark!” another woman rushed to her, “Such an honor to be in the presence of a true protector of the North.”

Yet another woman joined them: “I didn’t believe it fer a moment, what the Bolton Ser said abou’ ye. Red Wedding this, Red Wedding that. Here ye are, ‘live and well, aye my lady?”

They thought she was her mother. _For the love of the Seven, I need to get away from here._ She could never meet their expectations. She wasn’t ready.

“Sansa!”

Exchanging questioning looks, the women made way for Jon, and curtsied. “Ramsay Bolton’s been locked away. He’ll face execution in the morn.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Sansa nodded, her words barely audible. “The North is indebted to you for what you did today.”  

Jon responded with a look of shame. He had been wrong about winning against such great odds. Had the Knights of the Vale not made haste, they would all be dead. But along with shame, there was grief, and Sansa’s fears were confirmed. There were reports of a dead girl on the battlefield. _But_ , she grasped, _Arya was Ramsay’s key to the north_. Surely he wouldn’t be so daft to kill her in front of his Northern supporters.

As if to mock her, two men chose that instant to carry in a small dark-haired girl, every inch of her skewered with arrows, on a stretcher. Her nose was missing but her face still familiar. Bile rose up Sansa’s throat. Removing herself from curious commonfolk gathered around the corpse, she emptied her stomach. _Gods, what had he done to her?_

Jon firm hand caressed her back. The burning sensation yanked at her throat long after there was nothing left to throw up.

“What shall we do with her, my Lord?” One of the men asked Jon.

“Take her down to the crypts where my father and Robb are.”

“Jon,” Sansa panted, her voice hoarse. “It’s not her.”

Taken aback, he removed his hold on her “Sansa…”

“It’s not Arya, Jon,” Sansa coughed, tears burning her eyes, a labored smile tugging at her lips, “It’s Jeyne.”

“Jeyne?”

“Jeyne Poole. Remember dance lessons with Robb and Theon?”

“Sansa—” Jon clamped her face in his palms, searching her face for answers to his unspoken questions.

A sob, of both grief and relief, rattled Sansa when she nodded. Sharing in her shock, Jon scooped her into his arms and held her to him, onlookers be damned.

***

Sansa sent Jon inside to wash, and took a turn about the castle to meet with the castle’s servants. Once everyone had had a moment to rejoice at her return, she mobilized them to ready rooms for the lords, and to make adequate accommodations for the injured. She then went outdoors to lend her needle to the fighting men needing mending.

Val came to her aid, holding men thrice her size still, as Sansa stitched them up. Blood and mud soiled her apron. Her forehead dampened with sweat despite the frigid weather, and her skin threatened to tear from washing her hands so frequently. When the hour grew late, and her legs threatened to buckle, she got a healer to take over for her and headed inside to rest.

Her ascent to the chamber the maids had prepared for her was interrupted by the distant sound of blaring horns. Peering out of a window overlooking the south gate, she saw approaching banners of the Vale flitting in torchlight. She splashed her face with cold water, gave instructions to open and light one of the smaller audience chambers, and greeted Littlefinger at the main entrance.

“Dearest Sansa,” he said, beholding her fatigued and bloodied form, “you seem to have adjusted to your northern roots splendidly. I was afraid your time with us down south might have diminished the wolfishness your father’s family was renowned for. But what is time against the pull of blood?”

Sansa offered him a trite smile, directed his entourage towards the banquet hall for food and drink, and ushered him into the audience chamber.

“I must offer Lord Snow my congratulations,” said Littlefinger as Sansa showed him a seat. “Will he be joining us?”

“I bid Jon to retire for the night. He’ll be happy to meet with you in the morning.”

A girl entered with a tray with two goblets of wine. Awestruck by Sansa, she would have fed her the wine herself if she could.

“That will be all,” Sansa told her. Once she left, Sansa spoke to Littlefinger sweetly but confidently. “It is you who is deserving of congratulations, _Father_. The battle was all but lost until your men arrived.”

“You know I’d do anything to secure your safety, child. _Even if_ I am more than a little displeased by what you did to poor Harry. The men of the Vale will be difficult to pacify when they discover they came to the aid of their heir’s murderer.”

“You know I’d never hurt Harry,” Sansa looked at him incredulously, “He was my last chance at a normal life—A home, a title, a husband and children. You know me better than to think I would squander all he promised. I’ve gained nothing from his death aside from a broken heart.”

“Then why did you run, child?” He took her hand in his, “Why didn’t you come to me?”

“Forgive me, Father, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing everything again.” She had grown quite savvy at summoning sobs.

“Hush, child, hush! Never doubt my adoration for you, and I can’t help but adore you even more now that you’re back here. To have had the gall to retake your home so swiftly by whatever means necessary…Why, I believe you’re even more Cat than I imagined you to be.”

Sansa pressed her lips to suppress a grimace and bashfully wiped her tears.

“But the fact of the matter remains that, with Harry dead, our hold of the East remains precarious at best. Tomorrow ravens will be sent to King’s Landing informing Cersei of your survival, and my coming to your aid. Now given what you’ve been through, I know Sweet Robin is hardly the husband you’d envisioned for yourself, but we must strengthen ties between the north and east. The boy gets sicker by the day. If we don’t make haste, the Vale will have no heirs.”

“Sweet Robin does not have to be the one siring his heirs, Lord Baelish,” she smirked at him, finding satisfaction genuinely startling him. “And it is my understanding that Cersei has been imprisoned by the Faith of the Seven, and Mace Tyrell is Tommen’s Hand. You’ll remember Margaery and I were fast friends.”

“Yes,” Littlefinger reluctantly admitted.

“And was it not you who said that it is not the king but the king’s Hand who wields true power?”

“Yes.”

“How much sway do you think Margaery would have over her father?”

“Quite a lot, I imagine.”

“That’s very well then, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.”

“And if I were Tommen, I would be more worried about the brewing agitation at Dorne, and across the Narrow Sea.”

For a rare moment, Littlefinger was rendered speechless. While he had taken Sansa under his wing at the Vale, he had intentionally kept her in the dark of developments around Westoros. At the Wall, she had tried to rectify her ignorance by visiting the late Maester Aemon’s rooms and reading his old missives. She knew all about the capital’s fallout with Dorne over Oberyn Martell’s death, and the Targaryen slaver with dragons who assembled an army of unsullied across the sea.

“Tomorrow,” Sansa continued as Littlefinger found his tongue again, “you will attend Ramsay Bolton’s execution, and the North will know what you did to restore peace to it. The North remembers, Lord Baelish, and you won’t need a marriage alliance to ensure our gratitude or loyalty. At least not until Sweet Robin comes of age.”

Littlefinger concealed his ire with a cold smile. “Then I must bid you goodnight, child. If memory recalls, you northerners like to execute criminals quite early.”

Sansa promptly called for a manservant to show Littlefinger to one of the chambers readied. Roaming the halls of the castle on her own, she felt she might be able to do this after all.

***

“King of the North! King of the North! King of the North!”

Jon rose to his feet and looked at Sansa in disbelief. Everything. Everything he had ever dreamed of was coming true. Yet, he felt like an imposter. This should have been Robb. He was but Jon, a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch…a bastard…a Targaryen. He couldn’t be Lord of Winterfell. He didn’t know how.

As a boy he had dreamed of a castle, of a wife, of grounds sprawling with his babes—but he wasn’t that man anymore. He had realized it on the battlefield as he mechanically ran Longclaw into one man after the other. He was almost crushed to death, but that seemed like a fitting way to die. More fitting than being the Lord of Winterfell. King of the North. He was born to fight, and now, a mere two days after victory over the Boltons, he was itching to fight again. That too when his people were naming him King.

Had he truly believed he could live idle faraway at Essos?

Winter was here, and the Great War imminent. Everything he did from now on had to be in the interest of the Night’s Watch, and its defense of the Wall. That was easier said than done, of course. The next few days were spent informing the Northern Lords of what lay beyond the Wall. Many were rattled by the notion of the undead encroaching the realm, but the majority dismissed it as old wives’ tales. Their men were weary from upheaval and war, and the wrath of Bolton sympathizers and the crown loomed large upon them. All they wished for was a period of peace.

Jon spent countless hours passionately entreating lords individually. The Watch needed more men. He encountered hesitance and distrust. The Watch had allowed Wildlings south of the Wall, free to rape and pillage as they pleased. That was folly they would not forgive easily. They tried to appease Jon by agreeing to send a few men north, but nowhere near enough. Jon knew if he were to rally larger numbers, he would soon have to broker some kind of deal with houses further south, outside his dominion.

Sansa walked in on him and Ser Davos weighing in on such a course of action, and politely asked Ser Davos for a moment alone with Lord Snow.

“Please tell me you haven’t voiced your intentions to anyone else but Davos,” Sansa fixed a stern look on Jon.

“I was going to speak to you before I approached anyone else.”

“Good,” she said, reeling in the reproach on the tip of her tongue, “Because you won’t be suggesting anything of the sort to their lordships.”

“Sansa, we have no other choice. The numbers pledged to the Night’s Watch by northmen are simply not enough. You saw the Wall for yourself. It needs more men if we’re to survive what’s coming. And we haven’t got much time.”

“Need I remind you, we stand on paper-thin ice, my lord? They may have proclaimed you the King of the North but there are still a great many Bolton sympathizers amongst us. If you entreat with King’s Landing or any other house involved in the Red Wedding, they will rid you of your title. And this time the Red Lady won’t be here to bring you back to life.”

Jon’s eyes twitched involuntarily. He had been trying to ignore the itching in his eyes, and the consistent throbbing in his temples for days now. His energy seemed to have abandoned him all of a sudden. “Damn the title then! You can have it.”

“Jon…”

“No Sansa,” he silenced her with a raised hand, wincing in pain when he leveled his eyes with hers, “I mean it. I kept my promise. My work here’s done. It’ll be easier to recruit men if I am just a Snow.”

Sansa studied him, concerned. “Jon, when was the last time you slept through the night?”

Not since the day before the battle for Winterfell. While at the Wall he’d have the same dream night after night: He was roaming the halls of Winterfell, calling for Sansa, for Robb, for Uncle Ned, and everyone else. All he ever found were their bones in the crypts below. _Only Starks belong here,_ the Kings of Winter chanted, _You’re no Stark. Imposter!_ Now he was back, he dreaded he’d wake to find Sansa’s corpse rotting in her chambers, and the castle deserted. So sleep eluded him, and his worry for the future was the only thing keeping him awake.

“I’m not a babe, Sansa.”

“Jon, even the strongest and bravest need rest. Why don’t you go to your chambers and—“

He stormed out without letting her finish. There was much to do ahead, and he was making no headway. Since Ser Davos had retired for the night, he spent the night pouring over books and scrolls for the smallest mention of Valyrian Steel or Dragon Glass. He tried composing a letter to Sam, asking for assistance, but his eyes drooped, making his pen run off the page. After numerous failed attempts, he crossed his arms to rest his head on them. Sleep did not come.

Come morning, he found a few boys from the castle and Winter Town having a go at each other with wooden swords in the training yard. Given the Boltons’ Master of Arms had been executed, they were unsupervised. Jon jovially stepped in as teacher. At first, he felt like a boy of seven and ten training with Robb again, but he took his task as teacher very seriously. These boys needed every bit of training he had to give before the Great War.

He was slower than usual. His aim was off. Everything felt heavy. He reminded himself to get something to stop the blinding pain in his head.

A tall slight boy managed to drive him back with a powerful strike to his sword. Another strike sent Jon’s sword flying into the gaggle of boys watching them. Jon’s arm remained suspended in midair, his body gone rigid. His vision blacked out and he felt soft wet mud cushion his knees.

“Lord Snow!” The boys cried, “Lord Snow, what’s the matter?”

“Call for the Maester!”

“Call for Lady Stark!”

“Call for the Onion Knight!”

He clawed at his throat, unable to bear the darkness closing in on him. Body upon body piled over him, crushed his chest. _I surrender_ , he pleaded into the abyss, _I surrender. Just make it stop hurting._

***

Sansa gave Jon milk of poppy, and stayed by his side, day and night, until the tremors subsided and he’d ridden out the worst of his fever. Two days later, when he awoke, she agreed to allow him to resume his duties on condition he ate when she told him to eat, and at least _tried_ to sleep a reasonable number of hours.

***

He was flying over the Wall, heading south. Grey clouds parted to reveal the white moors of the north, small holdfasts, and trees that went as far as the eye saw. He saw Winterfell, flew over its high walls and called for Sansa, for Robb, for Uncle Ned, for Arya. He called for Bran.

“Jon?”

He followed the voice to the broken tower, and stepped onto a ledge at the very top. Edging along, he came upon Bran, who seemed unaffected by his arrival.

“Bran! You can use your legs again!”

The little boy didn’t respond. He peered in through a window, fear etched into his features.

“The things I do for love,” an unfamiliar voice said, before a hand from within shoved Bran off the wall.

“Bran!” Jon screamed. He leapt off the ledge to save him. “No! No! _NO!”_

_Jon?_

Jon awoke with a jolt. His furs were damp and his breathing labored.  A soft hand brushed away the stray strands of hair from his eyes.

“It’s alright, Jon, sssh,” Sansa cooed, “It was just a dream.”

Tentatively touching her to see if she was real, he pulled her into a crushing embrace. She tucked feet under her legs on the bed and molded herself to him, staying like that until his shakes stopped.

When they parted, her skin glistened with a thin mist of sweat and her neck was flush with color. “You’re so warm.”

“Mmm,” Jon nodded, “It’s been so since I came back from the dead. The Red Lady’s magic, I suppose. I saw Bran.”

“I know.”

“Sansa, I think…I think he was pushed from the tower. Gods, if I’d only just watched him as I was supposed to, I would’ve known who’d done it.”

‘Hush, Jon, you didn’t know.” She gave his hand a squeeze. “Bran can come home someday. All because you won Winterfell back.”

After prolonging their close proximity for as long as she could bear, Sansa made to leave. Jon caught hold of her hand, that look of fright she knew so well clear in his grey eyes.

“Please don’t go.”

“Jon…”

“I won’t touch you, I promise.”

Sansa glanced at the door because propriety and self-respect demanded it of her. Her heart, however, never intended to leave. She walked around the bed and climbed in, pulling up the furs to her neck despite the heat radiating from Jon.

He thanked her with a smile and studied her face, as though seeing it for the first time. The scrutiny embarrassed Sansa.

“I never stopped loving you,” Jon said softly.

Her reaction was unreadable. She didn’t believe him. “Go to sleep, Jon.”

“Was it Tormund who told you? About her?”

“You can’t even say her name,” she retorted bitterly.

“Would you be more forgiving if I didn’t care for her? Thought of her as some tavern whore? You know that’s not who I am.”

Sansa turned her back to him. “Way of all men, isn’t it?”

“Sansa…I never compared you two, and I never will.”

Throwing off the furs, Sansa sat up. “I’ve heard enough. You’ll sleep better without me here.”

“Just let me explain.”

He beat Sansa to the door and blocked her path.

“Move!”

“I won’t. Not until you hear what I’ve got to say.”

“I don’t want to hear of your trysts with another woman.”

“Sansa…” He made to tuck her hair behind her ears.

“Don’t touch me!” she snapped, swatting his hand away.

Grabbing her by the hips, Jon directed her back to the bed, unaffected by her blows to his chest. She glared at him as he sat her down and kneeled before her, arms firmly planted at her sides to prevent escape.

He told her about Lord Mormont’s design to infiltrate the Wildlings, and how he had to adopt their ways to convince them he was a true turncloak. He told her of his capture of Ygritte and how she’d grown fond of him as one does a pet. He told her of how Wildlings knew no privacy. How everyone slept in the same tent and fucked in full view of others. How Ygritte snuck into his furs one night and coaxed him into making love to her. How they’d think him a spy for the Night’s Watch and kill him if he refused her.

“The more time I spent with them, the more I forgot who I was. I began believing I was a free man, that I was born beyond the Wall, and that I’d die beyond the Wall. I fancied I might have all those things beyond the Wall that the south couldn’t give me. A family. A woman I cared for by my side. But as soon as we scaled the Wall and my feet touched southern soil again, I knew how wrong I was. I knew I was wrong to lie to Ygritte about who I was. And she died because of lies I’d told her.”

Sansa mouth twisted in disgust.

“I’ve wronged both of you,” Jon said, desperation thick in his voice, “and I know nothing I say now will ever make you see how much I love you, how much I’ve _always_ loved you. Just know that, so long as there’s breath in my body, I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you safe.”

Swallowing the hurtful words she wished to hurl at him, Sansa rose to her feet. “The hour is late. Go to sleep, Jon.”

***

Jon’s nights continued to pass in turmoil. He would dream of a deserted castle, of the crypts, or of Bran falling, before waking up, shaking in a pool of his own sweat. After several torturous nights, he woke to Sansa cooing over him again. When he asked her not to go, she agreed to stay until he fell asleep. Having learned from his previous misstep, he kept his mouth shut, and let Sansa’s soft breaths beside him lull him into a fitfull sleep.

***

The castle was empty.  Again. This time rather than go down to the crypts or scale the walls of the Broken Tower, he went to the Godswood. The tune of a lullaby drew him deeper within, towards the hot springs. The sweet voice humming the lullaby belonged to Sansa.

Jon dared not go closer for fear of something horrid happening to her, like with Bran. He watched in silenced as she unbraided her hair, then undid the ties of her housecoat—he hadn’t seen that garment in years—and slid it off her shoulders, baring her naked bottom to him. She went on humming absentmindedly as she dipped her legs in the steaming water and sat on the bank, splashing water onto her breasts.

She lay on her back and smiled upon seeing him. Her fingers traced her nipples and fondled her breast before sliding down her belly to the thatch of red hair between her legs. Eyes closing in ecstasy, her mouth fell open to utter the most excruciatingly beautiful moan as she caressed her folds.

“Gods, Jon… _Aanh…”_

Jon’s eyes fluttered open. Sensing Sansa lying beside him, he suppressed his groan and lay rigid. His balls were in a vice and Sansa was bound to notice his hardened cocked. Thinking of relieving himself in the antechamber, he swung his legs off the bed and slowly sat up, trying not to jostle the bed too much.

“Jon?”

“It’s alright,” his voice trembled, “I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep. Was it another dream?”

“Hmm.” He clutched the furs to his crotch. To his horror, he felt Sansa crawling up behind him.

“Was it Bran again?”

“No,” he said gruffly.

She ran her hands down his bare arms, startling him. “Was it a good dream?”

Jon nodded.

“Mmm,” she cooed, threading her hands under his arms, and removing the furs to expose his tented small clothes. She undid its ties and freed his cock.

“Sansa…”

Her nimble hands caressed his chest now. Jon shuddered as her breasts pressed into his back. “Who were you dreaming of Jon?”

“You.” He spread the wetness at the tip of his cock down its shaft, and stroked.

She nipped at his earlobe and sucked behind his ear. “What was I doing?”

“You were lying naked as your name day – _mmph­ –_ and you were touching yourself.”

Her hands slid down his torso and played with the trail of hair running down to his cock. Jon leaned back into her, turned his head to hers for a kiss, but she denied him. “Would you have just watched me, Jon?”

“Aye, I’d watch you— _hmmph._ Some other day. Right then I would’ve fucked you senseless. Had you crying out my name for all of Westoros to hear.”

“Would you have fucked me hard, Jon?” Sansa asked coyly, sending a bolt of heat radiating through Jon.

“Yes.”

She covered his stroking hand with hers, and licked his shoulder. “Show me.”

He pumped and squeezed hard, leaning his head back on her shoulder, inhaling her scent, and basking in her soft and loving embrace. His muscles tightened and his posture folded as he neared release. He felt Sansa’s lips brushing up his back and shoulders. A sharp bite to the nape of the neck sent him over the edge.

Finding his breath, he fell onto his pillows, fully expended. Sansa helped him pulls his legs back onto the bed, pulled him to her and caressed him till his eyes grew heavy with sleep.

“Sansa, I need to…you…” Jon mumbled.

“Ssh.” She placed a soft kiss on his temple.

He surrendered, and for the first time in weeks, he slept through the night like babe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! So I totally understand if Jon's explanation for Ygritte isn't satisfactory to some (/all) but I really don't think Jon would ever use a girl to be a replacement for another (see Littlefinger). He's a respectful baby, despite making some really foolish choices. Also Sansa is toying with Littlefinger. She doesn't ACTUALLY want him to sire her babies. Duh!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and leaving comments!


	15. Maneuvers

It was a rare sunny day when Sansa received the raven—her dear friend Margaery was dead, along with her family, and King Tommen. They’d been burned alive in the Sept of Baelor with wildfire. Cersei now sat on the Iron Throne.

Sansa longed to scream, cry, punch Cersei to death, bring her to life, then kill her again. She went about her daily duties in a shocked stupor. The council voiced concern on the new development, but they didn’t know Cersei like she did. The mere mention of her name didn’t strike a chill in their cores. The townsfolk and wildlings she dealt with all day didn’t know. They most likely didn’t care either. King’s Landing was a world away and there was too much to do here, in the north, to worry about distant affairs.

She managed to stay strong through the morning. Grief found her eventually though, creeping up on her on her way to her afternoon meeting with northern and wildling women. Ducking into an empty chamber, she shed her tears. Her feelings seemed futile. It made no sense to fear Cersei when she had already witnessed the worst she was capable of. It made no sense to mourn Margaery or Loras when she knew the Tyrells had been playing with fire all along. It made no sense to keep friends or believe in lovers when she knew they’d all leave her someday. Yet, she felt all these things, and it did nothing but make her angry.

“Lady Sansa?” It was Val. “We were worried Lord Snow’s direwolf had eaten you.”

Sansa’s eyes had long dried, but their swollen redness told Val everything.

“You’re upset.” She took a seat next to her. After a long silence, she took Sansa’s hands in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’d be upset too if I had to do what you do day in and day out. So many rules, so many courtesies, so many thickheaded men trying to get their way.”

Sansa lips turned up in a smile. It made her head hurt but she was grateful for Val’s friendly words regardless. “I received word of a dear friend’s passing today. She gave me companionship, sanctuary, and hope at a time I needed it most, and I could do nothing to save her.”

“Was it a natural death?”

Sansa scoffed. She’d never heard of a single person dying a natural death in Westoros. “She and her family were murdered by the same woman who terrorized me for years.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, but if you’re in need of a friend Lady, know you have one in me.”

Sansa was blindsided by the tenderness in Val’s voice. “Thank you, Val.”

“And they’re quite a few other spearwives who’ve grown fond of you. They’d reckoned all your sort to be uppity and the likes, but you’ve gone through great pains to have your people accept us. Can I tell you something?”

Sansa nodded with a sniff.

“When our loved ones die, we burn them. Mostly it’s to keep them from rising again, but also because the ritual of it is an act of saying, ‘farewell.’ Of saying, ‘we’ll meet again someday.’ That way their ghosts don’t haunt us, and we’ll miss them like a friend gone ranging, but we go on living. Can I tell you something else?”

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh whole-heartedly now. “Yes, what, Val?”

“The mountain lion always lies in wait for the right time to pounce on its prey. You’re a patient woman, Lady Sansa. More than me or any other man or woman I can think of. If there’s someone who can do right by your friend, it’s you. You need only be patient.”

Sansa leaned forward and embraced Val. Val stiffened in surprise but relaxed eventually, roughly patting Sansa’s back.

Val may have been right. The past six years had been a whirlwind throwing her from one misfortune to the next. In the midst of her wallowing she had never thought to see to her family’s final rites. She had always believed such things formalities. It never occurred to her that their purpose may have been to console the living. Going down to the crypts, she lit four candles, for her father, mother, Robb, and the Tyrells, and bid them farewell till they met again. She had not forgotten what Jon said about dying, of course. She simply chose to have faith. After all, this was a world that brought Jon back to her, however twisted the circumstances.

Her heart felt lighter as she whispered her prayers before the statues of Northern kings past. The peace she felt was short-lived, for the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hollow chambers.

“Even in death, you Starks hold fast to your austere ways,” Littlefinger japed.

“Burnt or buried, the dead care not. It is for those who still harbor memories of their loved ones.”

Coming into Sansa’s peripheral vision, Littlefinger drew a blue flower from his cloak and placed it in the palms of her Aunt Lyanna’s statue. “I find memories to be a powerfully odd thing in us people. So many stories passed down from one to another, from place to place, from generation to generation...yet one wonders how one relies on memories that are not our own.”

He admired Lyanna’s statue. “She was a beautiful woman your Aunt Lyanna. History will remember her as the woman who brought down a dynasty, all for love…”

The hairs on Sansa’s neck stood up. Her unreadable eyes bore into him.

“…but will people remember Elia Martell the same? The woman who entered a loveless marriage in the name of duty, bore the crown healthy children, and then watched them murdered before being killed herself?”

“Had you taken to fancying the Princess, Lord Baelish?” Sansa asked tartly.

“No,” Littlefinger chuckled, “I’d only ever loved one woman. That is until—”

“Rhaegar Targaryen kidnapped and raped Aunt Lyanna,” Sansa said through gritted teeth. Whatever Littlefinger knew—and from his tone, Sansa now dreaded he knew more than he let on—he needed to believe she knew far less. “He was a savage, and while I pity what became of Elia Martell, it does not take away from my aunt’s tragedy. Love wasn’t the downfall of their dynasty, Rhaegar’s cruelty was.”

“I’ve upset you,” Littlefinger sighed, “and here I’d come to give you company in your grief.”

“I’m afraid I do not have the time to devote to grief.” She waved at the candles. “I have made my peace. Now, we must address more pressing matters.” She started for the stairs.

“Ah, yes. Our good friend, Cersei, now sits upon the Iron Throne. I’m afraid you may not get your wish of waiting for Sweet Robyn to come of age before uniting the North and East.”

“You’ll find I manage my expectations quite well, Lord Baelish, but won’t _you_ be putting yourself in grave danger if I marry your ward? Cersei does still believe I killed Joffrey, does she not? You’d make yourself a sworn enemy of the crown.”

“The Vale can be defended easily from Cersei’s dwindling forces.”

“So that numbers in your own army dwindle?” Sansa quirked an eyebrow at him.

Littlefinger stroked the side of her face. “It will be a small price to pay for your safety.”

Sansa brushed it aside and continued her ascent. “But it gets us nowhere in the game. Cersei will still be sitting on the throne. You told me yourself that military might isn’t the only way to obtain power.”

“I must say, I find your sudden interest in who sits on the Iron Throne rather uncharacteristic of you, little dove.”

“If it means ridding Westoros of Cersei Lannister, then I am most interested. You were Master of Coin under Robert Baratheon. How well were his coffers stocked?”

Littlefinger tilted his head, bemused. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“My father complained of the tourney held in his name when we arrived at King’s Landing. Rebuilding King’s Landing after Black Water mustn’t have been cheap.  And Tyrion raged a storm complaining how much Joffrey’s wedding costed. How much debt was he in?”

“A considerable amount.”

“And I imagine it’s only worsened since?”

“Well, I cannot say. I was no longer Master of Coin after Robert’s death.”

“In your shrewd estimation then…”

“Considerably more, I’d say.”

“Then am I wrong in assuming that debt is now Cersei’s?”

Littlefinger’s sly eyes glimmered in the dark. A proud and lust filled smirk twisted his mouth. “Let me guess: You’re going to say, with the Tyrells gone, Cersei has lost the last financier willing to support her war-mongering heart.”

“That will buy us time, no doubt. But what if there was a way you can shift all the lenders’ confidence from Cersei to you?”

“I would be required to pay the banks what the crown owes them…a sum I will not come to possess had I had fifty lifetimes.”

“You would not have to repay the whole sum--Just match what the Lannisters could pay and then some more.”

“Sansa, my little dove, your acumen impresses me greatly, but the Lannisters are wealthy. I would never be able to out-match their wealth.”

“But you can.”

Littlefinger was doubtful.

“You’ve heard, Jon—The Others are coming.” It was Sansa’s turn to smirk. She stopped once she reached the landing, drew close to him, and spoke conspiratorially. “In a few days’ time, Jon will send ravens to every noble house in Westoros warning them of what lies beyond the Wall. He’ll be asking for more men for the Watch, provisions of course, and entreat everyone to gather as many weapons capable of destroying the undead. Do you know what those weapons are made of?”

“My knowledge of folklore is a little rusty, but I’ll wager they’re not made from steel.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, an excited glint in her eyes, “white walkers are only killed with Valyrian steel and dragonglass.”

Littlefinger’s breath faltered. “You’ll have a fine time finding enough Valyrian steel to equip an army.”

“But dragonglass is more abundant, is it not?”

“Than Valyrian steel, yes. But that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to acquire.”

“Someone will have to mine it in Asshai and arrange for it to be brought to Westoros.”

“And it’ll need smiths to fashion it into weaponry,” Littlefinger licked his lips. The wheels were already turning in his head. Sansa had thought about this long and hard. She was not wrong. There was money to be made, but only if…

He narrowed his eyes at her. “But do you not get ahead of yourself, child? it doesn’t bode well for one to put stock in old wives’ tales.”

Sansa crept even closer to him, her voice a whisper. “In all honesty, I’m not sure if I believe in the Others myself. But you’re a cunning man, Lord Baelish, and you of all people know what makes men part with their coin. First there’s lust, then there’s…”

“…fear.”

“Precisely! Support Jon’s claims and supply the dragonglass, and you _will_ have your coin.”

He grabbed her hands and clutched it to his heart. “And we will be that much closer to the Iron Throne.”

He leaned in for her lips. Barely disguising her revulsion, she stilled him with a silent warning. Reclaiming her hands, she backed away. She froze on pivoting towards the family quarters. Stoically staring at her from a distance was Jon. His fists were clenched and his grey eyes burned with rage, but he said nothing. He may have been waiting for her to say something, but she said nothing either. After a moment, he stormed inside. They didn’t speak for the rest of the evening.

***

Jon had not taken himself in hand since Ygritte. In truth, he wasn’t sure if that part of him still worked after being stabbed. After Sansa helped him the other night, he longed to love her and bring her release but her touch was deft, and he was exhausted. When he woke the next morning, she was gone. And her nightly visits to his chambers stopped.

The following night, he stroked himself to sleep again, thinking of Sansa writhing underneath him; thinking of all the filthy and passionate declarations of love he’d whisper in her ear to hear her cry out in pleasure; thinking of her cunt fluttering, then squeezing his throbbing cock. He felt hollow afterwards. With her he had known what it was to feel whole and loved, and he had squandered it.

Much as he tried to respect the memory of Ygritte, who was now dead, he could not deny the obvious. He was always scared of her—of being abused for, ‘knowing nothing,’; of being discovered and then killed. There were dire consequences to being with Sansa as well, but at least in her arms, he felt safe. She loved him unconditionally, and he had thrown it all away.

Where would they be now if he had put his pride aside and whisked her away to Essos? How many children would they have had? _Gods,_ what he would give to see her belly swell with his babe. But it was all lost to him now. In a way, it was wise of Sansa to stop coming to his chambers. The Great War would be upon them soon enough, and he knew he had to leave her again, perhaps forever this time.

They remained close confidants, consulting one another in all matters concerning Winterfell and long-term stratagem. Occasionally they would reminisce about days long past and be reduced to stitches. Winterfell started to feel like home again. Jon may not have had Sansa as a lover, but he still had her as family, and that was more than he could have ever hoped for.

News of the massacre at King’s Landing had sent a nervous shock through the entire small council, but he saw how much more of a toll it took on Sansa. He longed to sit with her, and hold her to him as she grieved, but his duties for the day demanded he ride to inspect a nearby holdfast and speak to its owners about their relations with the Wildlings.

On his return in the evening, he searched the castle for Sansa, and found her in a close embrace with Littlefinger. His skin crawled and blood boiled. Had Sansa not warned him to check his behavior with him, he would have clobbered the leech senseless. She seemed unhurt when their eyes met. Behind her, Littlefinger shot him a smug grin. Unable to trust his composure, he hurried inside and shut himself in his chambers.

The following morning, he finished training new recruits of the house guard, and found Littlefinger waiting for him with his signature sly grin.

“Lord Baelish,” he said curtly.

“Lord Snow,” he bowed his head, and walked alongside him, shoulder-to-shoulder, “How are you finding your new recruits? Do you think they’ll be ready for the fight against the undead?”

Jon did not like the condescension lacing his words, “I wasn’t a believer in the Others either, Lord Baelish, but I had a rather rude awakening. I can assure you, by the time _you_ believe them real, it’ll be too late.”

“On the contrary, Lord Snow, I do believe you. One does not simply return from the dead to spread lies, no matter how fantastical.”

“If I were a betting man, I’d say you didn’t believe that either.”

“But you’re not a betting man at all, Lord Snow. If I may be so bold, I’d say you are much like your father. You did call Eddard Stark, Father, did you not?”

Jon’s heart pounded against his chest violently. He forced out a chuckle. “Is that not what bastards down south call men who sire them?”

“What an odd man he was, your father. So honorable and dutiful, yet so easily tempted by what was it…a tavern wench?”

“He never spoke of my mother.”

“Understandable. But please don’t mind my saying all this. Your father was truly a good and honorable man. I mean it.”

“Is there something I can help you with, Lord Baelish?” Jon asked in a clipped tone.

“Ah forgive me,” Littlefinger snickered in feigned shame, “I’m not as sharp as I used to be. I wished to share some counsel with you with regards to your plans for the Wall’s defense.”

Jon stopped, intent on listening. “Yes?”

“Now I must make it very clear that you will not be appeasing everyone by acting on what I’m about to tell you.”

“Alright.”

“I took the liberty of speaking to a few freefolk—wonderful people despite the rough edges, I must say—and they said fire is a common weapon used against the Others.”

“Aye.”

“Well, I won’t presume much of your knowledge of Targaryen history, but I will tell you this much: The Mad King had a sizeable stock of the most destructible fire known to man. You must be familiar with Stannis’ defeat at Blackwater?”

Jon nodded. Sam had received ravens detailing the obliteration of his entire fleet by something called: “Wildfire.”

“Wildfire, yes! You know of it.” His face grew grave, and his voice low, “More recently, it was used on the Sept of Baelor.”

Jon took a step back. “You’re saying Cersei Lannister is in possession of the rest of the Wildfire?”

Littlefinger nodded. “Not only that, but I happen to know for a fact that her Hand, Maester Qyburn is in possession of crucial knowledge involved to make more.”

Running his palm over his face, Jon paced to and fro. Littlefinger watched him, composedly.

“I thank you for your counsel, Lord Baelish,” Jon finally said, somewhat regretfully, “But I can’t strike a deal with a Lannister.”

“Because of Sansa?”

“Aye. She is finally on the mend after everything she’s been through, and I can’t inflict this on her.”

“Believe me when I say, I think Sansa Stark has grown into a fine woman and a great Lady, Lord Snow. One need only see what she’s managed to do with this castle in the past moon’s turn, but you can’t let her hatred for Cersei Lannister blind you against the right choice.”

Jon shook his head.

“I came to know Eddard Stark quite well during his short time as Hand. There was much to admire about him, but in the end, his dedication to his honor got him killed and put his family in mortal danger. If you long to see Sansa and the realm safe, you will have to make compromises.”

 _Kill the boy Jon_ , he heard Maester Aemon say, _Kill the boy and let the man be born._

“And just between two men who care deeply for Sansa, she need not know what she does not understand.”

With a flourish of his cloak, he was gone.

***

The sunny weather persisted despite it snowing all night. Sansa found herself with nothing to do after her midday meal. It was her own doing, of course. After much diligent organization, the castle now ran as smoothly as it had under her mother’s watch. Longing for some fresh air, she ordered her horse be readied. Jon learned of her plans, and joined her.

Sansa raced ahead of Jon to the Wolfswood. The wind lashed at her eyes, but she didn’t mind one bit. She felt light. Free. Almost happy. Giggling, she reined her horse to a halt. Jon caught up with her, his eyes as big as saucers.

“Where did you learn to ride like that?”

“I didn’t,” she said deliriously.

He dismounted and helped her to her feet. Their boots sank into the snow.

“You could’ve been thrown off,” Jon chastised. He tightened his hold around her waist to make his displeasure known, then let go.

“I don’t think so. It’s fear that makes you falter, and I’ve got none of that left in me.”

“Only a fool fears nothing.” He looked at her as they gathered their cloaks and hiked through the snow.

“Says the man who’s said to have charged at the Bolton army _alone_.”

“That was different. I was overcome with anger.”

“Well…perhaps I too am overcome.” She saw the concern on Jon’s face and shook her head, “I just wish to be a little girl again, that’s all. I used to take such pride in my curtsies and my embroidery and my lessons, and now I’m a woman grown doing the same godforsaken things. I’ll never know the joys you and the others had. I’ll never know what it’s like to do something for the fun of it. Everything I’ve ever done has been for the good of the family, for honor, for Littlefinger, for survival.”

Jon shyly scooped her hand into his. “You’ve lived as a bastard in the Vale. You know there’s not much pleasure to be had under such conditions.”

Sansa looked at her boots, feeling ashamed. “I know, I’m sorry, Jon. I’m being selfish when I know I shouldn’t but—“

Jon pressed his gloved fingers to her lips. “Hush, my love.” Sansa sighed in relief at the feel of his tender gaze on her. “You have nothing to be sorry for. The fault is mine. You have restored Winterfell so beautifully in such a short time, but nobody’s thanked you for all you’ve done. Sansa, watching you this past moon, I now understand how much those curtsies and lessons matter to rule. And I don’t blame you for longing for some frivolity but know this—Winterfell needs you. _I_ need you.”

“Jon…” Sansa ghosted her hands over his.

Jon leaned closer so their noses touched. “Tell me, Sansa.”

“I want to put the past behind us. If the Others are coming and you must leave me again, I wish you to be mine. Jon, I need you.”

Jon’s eyes watered. His lips turned up in a smile. He covered her lips with his and devoured her with the passion of a starving man. Backing her up against a tree with a thick trunk, he smothered her face in kisses, and bit at her lower tongue, eliciting unrestrained, wanton moans from her. Sansa gasped for air as he moved down her neck, sucking and biting; his hands snaking under her cloak and roaming her waist, fondling her clothed breasts.

“I need you so much, Jon,” she whimpered, senselessly. She saw her breaths rise in white tufts, but her body was warm, and tingling over. The white of the snow blurred her vision. She was somewhere else. Another world where there was only Jon.

Jon yanked his gloves off and her skirts up unceremoniously, and stroked her through her smallclothes. “Did you enjoy watching me the other night, my love,” he licked the base of her neck, trembling at the feel of the slick wet material under his fingers. “Did you touch yourself after you put me to sleep?”

“I—no—I…“ she panted.

“That’s a shame, my love.” He undid the ties of the garment and loosened it enough to fall of its own volition, “You know what you did in my dreams, that night?” He found her nub and gave it a pinch.

“ _Aanh_ , Jon!” Eyes rolling to the back of her head, Sansa arched her back against the tree.

“First you bore your breasts to me, coaxed me into suckling your teats in my sleep. You enjoy that don’t you?”

“Mmm…” Sansa’s hands were in his hair now, undoing its tie, and pulling on it hard. The dull ached shot straight down to his cock.

“Then you undress completely and straddle my leg. Ride it till you come.” His middle finger traced her wet slit, drew it back and forth. “Left me a little present for when I woke. Is that something you’d do, Sansa?”

“Mmm,” Sansa licked her lips. Her brows furrowed in anguish.

Jon abandoned her cunt, and licked the pad of his middle finger. He opened his mouth to her to taste herself on his tongue. She shivered as she did. “Tell me, Sansa.”

“Kiss me, Jon,” she trembled, “Kiss my cunt.”

Smirking, he gave her lower lip one last bite before kissing down her cloaked form and burrowing under her skirts. Sansa cried out as his hot breath thawed her chilled thighs and set fire to her cunt. His callused hands caressed the tender skin down the creases between her thighs and cunt, before reaching around and clasping her arse.

Her breath hitched as he inhaled her scent. His coarse beard grazed the sensitive flesh inside her thighs. She pressed his face with them, seeking more friction. She wished to be grazed raw down there by the end of it. With a primal growl, he sucked at her peach, rhythmically licking it and scooping it with his lower teeth. His moans reverberated up her body. Sansa closed her eyes and reveled at the heated coil tightening in the pits of her stomach.

She jumped when he slid two fingers inside her and roughly twisted them up against her wall. Hunching over, she grasped onto the lump in her skirts that was his head. “Gods, yes,” she huffed.

Her walls almost hurt from the unrelenting force he used. But then he abruptly stopped, and passed the most delicate touch over the soreness.

Sansa’s scream echoed through the woods. She rid out her peak as Jon’s tongue cajoled her nub for prolonged aftershocks. Jon kissed around her mound before pulling up her smallclothes, now soaked with snow, and doing up the ties. Sansa was immobile when he emerged from her skirts, the beginnings of a sated smile pulling at her lips. She drew Jon to her and held him to her. His knees snow-covered knees soaked Sansa’s skirts as they stayed there, breathing each other in out in the open.

“We’d best get back,” he said, brushing aside a damp strand of hair from her cheeks, “before your arse gets frostbitten.”

They rode home at a leisurely pace. It was almost dark by the time they reached the gates. Tormund was at the stables to greet them.

“There you two are! The castle’s been up in chaos the past few hours.”

“What is it?” Sansa jumped off her horse. “More news from the South?”

“Or from the Wall?” Jon pressed.

“No, nothing like that. Unexpected visitors that’s all.”

“Where from?” Jon and Sansa asked in unison.

“Skagos.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I know this chapter was more Littlefinger+Sansa+Jon than Jon + Sansa but I hope the end made up for it ;) I just wanted to show Sansa's training/observations over the past six years finally paying off. But of course, Littlefinger is out to fuck shit up. 
> 
> As always thank you for reading and leaving some love!


	16. The Trueborn Heir Returns

Jon and Sansa followed the sound of excited chatter and music to the banquet hall where the remaining north men celebrated with ale and hollered at servants to hurry up with their supper. They fell silent on their entry and rose to their feet. “Your Grace!” they all greeted them.

Sansa scanned the hall for a sign of the unexpected visitors. Jon’s hand clamped over her arm, motioning her to look at an approaching black mass of fur—a grown direwolf she had not seen in six years. Shaggydog!

“Rickon?” Sansa whispered in disbelief. “Rickon,” she said louder. She looked from Jon to the elated faces of the men and women in attendance. “Where is he?”

“My Lady,” a travel-worn man stepped forward and bowed. “I am of Lord Crowl’s House Guard. My Lord received news of your victory over the Boltons, and saw it fit we return Winterfell’s heir to his rightful place.”

“Rickon’s alive,” Jon breathed in relief. Beaming, he announced with a hearty laugh: “Rickon is alive!”

Sansa searched the hall again. “Where is he?”

Ser Davos came to her aid: “The fanfare surrounding his return startled the lad, my lady. I took the liberty of moving him and his nurse to a secluded room.”

“Oh.” There was a slight tremor in Sansa’s voice. She smiled at the Skagossi man—she hoped it conveyed her gratitude—but the prospect of laying eyes on Rickon again made her nervous. Stroking Shaggydog behind his ears, she asked, “Will you take me to him, boy? That’s a good lad.”

The direwolf padded out of the hall, pausing for Sansa to catch up. Jon thanked the Skagossi escort and followed them to the nearest sitting room. A small figure scrambled behind an unkempt but comely woman in wildling furs. Sansa spotted the boy’s Tully auburn hair.

“Hello,” she said with baited breath.

The wildling woman smiled at them. Remembering her southern courtesies, she bowed, albeit clumsily. “Your Graces.” Peering behind her, she pulled at the boy to come forward. “Come on now, don’t be shy, lad. They’re not going hurt you.”

The boy, barely past his tenth name-day, stuck his head out for a glance at them. He pulled on the Wildling’s cloak to whisper something in her ear.

“Don’t be silly, boy,” she chastised sternly, “They’re as alive as you and me. I see ‘em.”

He would not budge.

“He thinks you’re ghosts,” the Wildling explained, “He knows his mother and father to be dead and thinks you both to ‘ave risen from the dead.”

Sansa’s chest constricted. Of course Rickon needed his mother and father! Even she, a woman grown, wished they were still alive to comfort and protect her. And he was just a babe. She closed the distance between them and sank to her knees.

“Rickon, darling, it’s Sansa. Remember, you had— _have_ two sisters? Arya was the one who would play with you and the boys, and I was the one who sang you to sleep at night. Do you remember?”

“You’re not—“ Rickon’s words were muffled by the Wildling’s cloak, “Mother’s dead isn’t she?”

“I’m afraid so, my love. But we’re here now. And you’re home. We’ll take good care of you.”

His eyes—Tully blue in color—travelled from her to Jon. “Father was beheaded for treason.”

“That’s Jon, remember?” Sansa was choking on her words. “Our brother, Jon who went to the Wall with Uncle Benjen.”

A strange expression passed over Rickon’s face as he studied Jon. “He’s not our brother.”

“That’s no way to speak to your lord and lady, boy!” the Wildling reprimanded.

“That’s alright, he’s just afraid,” Jon said, crouching beside Sansa, “Rickon, lad, it’s me, Jon. Remember we used to practice at swords, and then steal sweets from the kitchens before supper? Remember, we’d laugh so much every time Robb tripped Theon in the training yard, and we’d watch Bran climb every wall on this castle?”

Rickon let go of the Wildling’s cloak and presented himself with trepidation. Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. For a moment, it seemed like a young Robb had materialized before them. He regarded them suspiciously. “And then you left.”

His words hung in the air, summoning years of guilt and regret and misery into the tiny confines of the sitting room. Jon sensed Sansa’s turmoil and placed a reassuring arm around her. She held onto him for strength and reached for Rickon’s hand. “I know, little one. And perhaps someday you’ll find it in you to forgive us. But we are returned and we may be a family again. Will you let us be your family, sweet little one?”

Rickon looked at the Wildling for permission. With her encouragement, he drew close enough for Sansa to scoop him up in her arms. He had grown so much! A peaceful smile graced her lips when he returned her embrace. Looking upon Jon’s face, she saw his grey eyes glisten. The adoration shone in them kindled a long lost warmth in her heart.

***

Rickon’s reserve returned when they tried to have him meet with the people congregated in the banquet hall. Like Sansa, he had spent the past few years hiding under the guise of a commoner. He was taught to run any time a stranger showed him too much interest. The collective outpour of joy on his arrival at Winterfell elicited panic from years of conditioning, and had him clinging to his nurse, Osha’s cloak like an infant.

Sansa ordered Rickon’s old bedchamber be prepared. When his bath was ready, he refused Sansa’s help, declaring Osha the only one allowed to see him undressed. Crestfallen, Sansa waited outside his bedchamber, twisting a handkerchief to the point of tearing. Jon bid the gathered north men downstairs goodnight and joined her. He took one frantic hand in his and stroked it till she calmed down.

After what seemed like hours, Osha emerged from the bedchamber. “He’s ready for bed. You can say goodnight if you like.”

Jon egged Sansa on with strokes to the small of her back. Furs tucked up to his neck, Rickon’s face grew pale as Osha made to leave.

“It’s alright, lad. I’ll be needing a bath myself. The lord and lady will be here till I come back.” Flashing them a polite smile, she left.

Sansa smoothed the furs over him. “Comfortable?”

“It’s smaller than I remember,” Rickon mumbled, “but it’s definitely bigger than where Osha and me have been sleeping. Where’s Old Nan?”

Sansa looked at Jon who sighed.  “Old Nan was getting on in years. She was much older than mother and father. Older than grandfather even.”

“You can say it,” Rickon sniped, “She’s dead. Everyone’s dead.”  

“Oh darling,” Sansa lay down beside him and brushed his unruly auburn curls from his forehead, “Death is but a part of life. We must all die someday. What’s important is we do what must be done and fill the world with so much love, it threatens to spill over the brim.”

A yawn escaped Rickon. He rubbed his drooping eyes. “Osha tells good stories. She doesn’t know as many as Old Nan though.”

“You know,” Sansa looked over her shoulder at Jon. He watched them stoically looking forlorn. “Jon can tell you a fair many stories as well. And I’m sure Old Nan or Osha have never heard of them.” She smiled at Jon. “Come, Jon. Tell Rickon about the Night’s Watch going to Hardhome.”

Jon swallowed audibly. He shuffled about and cleared his throat. “Well uh…”

“You’ve been beyond the Wall?” Rickon asked.

“Aye.”

Now curious, Rickon made room for Jon on the bed. Sitting against the headboard, Jon recounted the siege of Hardhome—how he tried to negotiate with the Free Folk, how the white walkers attacked, how he shattered one into a million pieces with Longclaw, how the dead rose as they sailed away. Rickon listened in rapt attention. When Jon finished, he insisted he tell him more stories from beyond the Wall, but the hour grew late. Sansa brushed his eyes shut, and sang him his favorite lullaby.

They lay on either side of him, listening to his deep breaths as he slept. She felt Jon’s eyes watching her.

“Why are you crying?”

Sansa touched her cheek. It was damp. “Because I’m so very happy, Jon,” she whispered, “Rickon’s home. Can you believe it? He’s grown so much.”

“Aye, he’ll be training with real steel soon.”

“He was such a wee thing when he was born, do you remember?”

The side of Jon’s lips turned up a little. “Arya used to make me take him out of his crib when Lady Catelyn and Old Nan weren’t looking. They didn’t allow her to hold him.”

Sansa remembered Septa Mordane complimenting her on how well she held Rickon as a newborn. She told her she’d make a fine mother someday. From that day on, she had considered Rickon her own babe.

“Remember the letter I had him bring you?” Jon chuckled.

Sansa muffled her own laughter with her arm. “Gods, what were you thinking?”

“He didn’t know how to read. I knew what I was doing.”

“Jon…” Sansa’s amusement morphed into concern, “…what if he still can’t read? He’s had no education.”

“He’s but returned, Sansa,” Jon stroked her hand with his thumb, “I’ll write Sam to send us a Maester for him.”

Sansa lay her head down and sighed. “We were grown when we left Winterfell. We’d already made enough memories to last us a lifetime. Poor Rickon was only a babe. Gods know what horrors he’s seen…if he’ll ever be able to be happy.”

“We’ll make him more memories then.” He tenderly brushed touched her hand to his lips. “He’ll have the bravest, most loving woman watching over him.”

“And you,” she smiled.

Settling on his side and throwing his arm over Rickon and Sansa, Jon smiled back. “As long as I can.”

They regarded one another in silence, gradually drifting off to sleep.

The feel of a languorous kiss behind her ear woke Sansa from her peaceful slumber. It was still dark out, but the tint of blue through the window told her it was morning. She leaned into the soft kiss and giggled at the prickliness of the hair grazing her neck.

“Ghost’s restless,” Jon crooned against her ear. “We should take the wolves out for a walk.”

Turning onto her back, she pulled him down by the collar for a kiss. “Mm, I’ll meet you downstairs.”  

Rickon was still there, fast asleep. She checked if he was still breathing. _He’s not a babe anymore,_ she reminded herself. Stopping by her room to wash and dress for the day, she headed downstairs to find Jon waiting for her with Ghost and Shaggydog. They trailed behind the wolves, side by side, cloaks brushing together, but dared not touch one another. At the Godswood, they knelt before the heart tree and offered their prayers of gratitude for Rickon’s return. When they rose to their feet, Jon drew Sansa to him and leaned in for a kiss. Sansa jerked away.

“Sansa…” Jon pleaded, his expression dejected.

Sansa put a respectable distance between them. Her ears strained for anything out of the ordinary. “Jon, we can’t. It’s not safe.”

Concern flashed across Jon’s face. “What is it, Sansa? Has anyone suspected us of…”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, “Nobody suspects that. But Jon, I fear…the other day Littlefinger said something so strange, I haven’t been able to cast it from my mind.”

Jon looked about, expecting to find someone spying on them.

“Down in the crypts the other day, he spoke of Aunt Lyanna. He said she was responsible for bringing down a dynasty. For _love_.”

Jon drew a sharp breath. “He asked me if I called Uncle Ned, Father. Sansa, he knows.”

“ _Seven hells!_ ” Sansa hissed. Panicked, she began pacing. “We need to write to your friend, Sam. He needs to find Robb’s letter. It’s the only way.”

“He’s trying to scare us,” Jon stilled her, “If he had proof, he would have announced it to the north men long before they named me King.”

Sansa shook her head. She _knew_ Littlefinger had something up his sleeves that she didn’t see.

“Sansa, he also told me to parley with Cersei.”

“What?” she snapped.

“Aye. He told me of her Wildfire reserves and suggested I form an alliance with her to fight the Others.”

“Cersei would murder every last living soul in Westoros before forming an alliance with you! She’ll have nothing to do with our family.”

“I know, sweet girl, I know! But Littlefinger wished me to go behind your back and do it anyway. Don’t you see what he’s trying to do?”

Of course she understood he was trying to tear a rift between them. Knowing his intentions, however, didn’t make it any less frightening. Sansa told Jon of her attempts to send Littelfinger away from Winterfell with a scheme to mine and sell dragonglass from Asshai. It seemed to perplex Jon more than comfort him.

“Sansa, the Long Night is almost upon us. We _need_ that dragonglass. It won’t do to have him charge exorbitant prices for it.”

“I know, I know, but it was the only thing that came to mind in the spur of the moment.” She tried to put words to fragmented thoughts she’d had the night before, “ _Skagos._ I’d read somewhere that Skagos has a sizeable supply of dragonglass. Houses Crowl, Magnar and Stane colluded to keep Rickon’s identity a secret these past years, and they returned him to us when the time was right. They’re loyal, Jon. We must parley with them for dragonglass. Perhaps it will be enough to sustain an army and Littlefinger’s southron venture will be for naught.”

“It’s certainly worth a try.”

“We must act soon. If he spreads word—”

Jon kissed Sansa’s forehead in reassurance. “It doesn’t matter what he tells the world, my lady. Times are changing. Winterfell’s true heir has returned and the stag who once killed a dragon is long dead.”

Sansa pursed her lips.

“But,” he chuckled, “if it puts you at ease, I will behave as brotherly as I am capable without hacking my cock off.”

They took their time returning to the castle. The growls of their wolves snapped them out of their cheerful daze, and reminded them to keep a decent distance between themselves as they walked. Ahead, they found Littlefinger trying to stave off Ghost and Shaggydog’s advances.

“Ghost, Shaggydog, here!” Jon whistled.

“Charming creatures,” Littlefinger smiled tritely. He would not remove his gaze from the retreating direwolves for fear of being attacked again. “I must offer my congratulations to you both. It must be such a relief to have a trueborn son back. I’d be honored to make his acquaintance.”

Sansa shot Jon a look to remain silent. “He’s still asleep, Lord Baelish. The journey from Skagos did not suit him well, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a shame. I do hope to see him before I leave.”

Sansa could have leapt from joy. Outside, her expression remained unchanged. “All is well I hope?”

“Oh, there’s nothing to worry about, my lady. Sweet Robyn’s been fatherless too long, and there is that other matter we discussed that needs seeing to. But know that I am but a raven away from coming to your service.” Looking at Jon: “Yours too, your Grace.”

“We’re forever grateful for your help, Lord Baelish,” Jon bowed his head.

Littlefinger appraised the two of them and flicked his tongue. To the untrained eye, he may have seemed amiable, but Sansa saw the jealousy burning in him bright as day. “I can’t tell you how much you remind me of your Lady Mother, Sansa. Sometimes I truly feel as if the Seven play a cruel trick on me.”

***

Jon stayed true to his word. He played the part of dutiful brother to Sansa to perfection. At times, his control slipped and he ran his hand over hers under the table at council meetings, or brushed against the small of her back when they passed one another in the corridor, but he understood Sansa’s fears well enough not to take things too far.

Since their conversation in the Godswood, Jon suspected they were being watched. No matter where they went, there would always be a maid or manservant hauling some arbitrary object to some arbitrary destination. He didn’t think it beyond the realm of possibility that some of them were Littlefinger’s spies looking to catch them in a compromising position. Of course, he knew their nightly affairs didn’t only interest spies. He was not some bastard anymore, and Sansa was not some innocent and naive little girl. They were King and Lady of Winterfell now, and for their subjects’ to be interested in how they warmed their beds was only natural. Whatever the reason for their lack of privacy, Jon thought it best not to visit Sansa’s chambers alone at late hours.

They still spent their nights together in bed with Rickon. His youngest brother had a difficult time orienting to affairs at Winterfell. He shrank from people when they approached him, and feared being left alone. He would have been a recluse had it not been for Osha’s presence. She accompanied him everywhere, and forced him to befriend children his age who frequented the castle. Jon and Sansa spent as much time with him in between their duties as they were allowed. Sansa tried to commence reading lessons with him, while Jon accompanied him in chasing Shaggydog through the grounds when he wasn’t showing him how to wield a sword. Both wished they could give him more time but such was the taxing nature of ruling.

They relished every second of being together at night, exchanging stories, singing songs, sleeping in contentment. Though Jon urges to be intimate with Sansa plagued him day and night, he could not deny how wonderful it was to see his beloved family within arm’s reach at the end of a long day. He tried to commit every moment of it to memory. This was all he ever wanted.

The Knights of the Vale downed their tents and prepared to leave. As protocol demanded, Jon and Sansa rode out at dawn the day of their departure, and saw Littlefinger off. When they returned, they found Rickon balled up on his bedchamber’s floor, weeping. Osha had left him on his own to see to something, and she seemed to have taken Shaggydog with her. When Rickon could not find Jon and Sansa at the castle, he had started panicking.

“The Ironborn are coming! The Ironborn are coming! They’re going to burn me this time,” he sobbed. Sansa drew him into her arms, and rocked him till he calmed.

Hours passed. The castle was searched from top to bottom. Osha was nowhere to be found. And neither was Shaggydog. Rickon became inconsolable as night fell. Sansa feared he might make himself ill from crying so much.

“She may have gone to meet with the free folk at their camp,” she told Jon. Rickon’s screams had turned her jittery. “I’d introduced her to Val. But I don’t understand why she’d just leave Rickon without saying anything.”

“I’ll take Ser Davos and go look for her. Keep Ghost close while I’m gone.”

Sansa saw the two men off at the gates, and returned to Rickon’s chambers with Ghost. He had cried himself to sleep. Time passed slowly, and Sansa grew weary. A loud crash outside startled her sharp. Peering out of the window, she saw a brawl had broken out between a few of the castle’s manservants and gamekeepers. Prickly with fatigue and worry, Sansa stomped downstairs with Ghost at her heels and let him break up the fight with a growl. The men apologized profusely and bowed low, promising not to engage in such boorish behavior again.

When she returned upstairs, Rickon’s bed was empty.

“Rickon? RICKON? RICKON?”

Maids came rushing into the chamber. “What is it, my lady?”

“Where’s Rickon? Have any of you seen Rickon?”

He wasn’t in the kitchens, in the banquet hall, in the Godswood, or in any of the many chambers in the castle. Sansa woke the castle, dashing from room to room, crying out Rickon’s name till her voice grew hoarse. When there was no denying the futility of her search, she dropped to her knees in the snow, willing herself not to faint.

The distant howl of a wolf, rejuvenated her senses. Beside her, Ghost howled back with an answer. The call came from up north, from the Wolfswood. Rushing to the armory, she picked out a dagger—small but sharp enough to incapacitate—and tucked it deep within her cloak. She saddled her horse herself and pulled a lighted torch from its sconce. Without a word to anyone, she set out for the Wolfswood with Ghost on her tail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeep. Sorry for the suspenz. The chapter was getting too long so I had to break it in two. 
> 
> Also, I just need to talk about that Game of Thrones promo because my first thought watching it was, "YESSSS!!! That's King Jon looking world-weary because he has to fight to protect the love of his life and his surrogate son/cousin!!! AND HOW RAD IS IT that he's the only one of the three monarchs with the most to lose?!" I don't even remember what's canon anymore. Lol.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and leaving comments :)


	17. Wolves in the Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Some violence up ahead.

Snow swirled in all directions. The relentless wind blew out Sansa’s torch. It was not unmanageably dark. The stars and moon shined bright above, and their light reflected off the snow below. She dismounted and clamped her hood over her head. Ghost sprinted ahead into the Wolfswood. He answered the far off howling with calls of his own.

“Where are you, Rickon?” she asked herself. She wished to call his name out loud, but she feared the worst. What if Rickon had not wandered off on his own to find Shaggydog? What if he had been taken? What if he was being used as bait to lure her out of the castle? _Seven Hells!_

“Ghost, hush!” she hissed.

She pulled on his furs to retreat. She had made a grave mistake coming here alone. She knew it was wiser to return with a proper search party, with more torches, and more steel.

Ghost did not share her inclination to leave. He resisted her pull and continued howling. The answering howl seemed to come from another direction. It was on the move.

“Ghost,” Sansa dug her nails into his fur, “we must return to Winterfell immediately!”

Ghost snapped his ferocious teeth at her, making her stumble back and fall. He whimpered and bowed his head in apology, but bounded off deeper into the woods.

“No, come back!” She hurried to her feet and tried to give him chase. “Ghost, come back!” Boots sinking deep into the soft snow, she tripped over herself. The direwolf was out of sight.

She ventured deeper, making mental notes of trees she came by so she knew her way back. She should have known these woods like the back of her hand, but she was not as adventurous as Arya as a child. _Gods,_ _if only she had been_! Rickon would not have gone off by himself then. Precisely none of this would have happened then. What would her mother say if she were alive now? _You’re a terrible mother, Sansa._

A faint but distinct cry sent a chill up Sansa’s spine. Thankfully, it did not belong to a child. It sounded like a man grown. Sansa followed them as they persisted, growing more anguished in sound. They led her to a thick cluster of trees with low branches that provided ample cover. Her eye caught the glimmer of a small fire. Beside it a dirty man in ragged clothes lay whimpering. He was covered in blood. His left arm had been torn off.

“You’ll shut tha’ ‘ole of yers, Tal,” a second hooded man said to him, “I won’ be havin’ the bastard and the whore settin’ their army on us because you canna stop cryin’ like a babe nursin’ at the teat.”

“Decken, I ca—I can’t see.”

A third man spoke: “It’s yer arm tha’s been ripped. What’s it gotta do with yer eyes?”

Sansa stifled a gasp as she saw a small writhing form beside the third man. It was Rickon. He had been tied and gagged. They had not bothered cloaking him before taking him. He shook uncontrollably.

The man, Decken, knelt his head down to Tal’s. “We’ll find that ruddy wolf and bring ye it’s head. I promise.”

“Don’t be makin’ promises ye can’t keep. We’re leaving this hell soon’s we get the bastard.”

“D-D-D-Decken, I’m so cold,” Tal whimpered.

“I know, Tal. I know. You just hold on a little longer, ye hear me? We’ll be leaving soon.”

Sansa stayed low and crept behind the thick trees encircling them till she was right behind Rickon, and the third man.

“Hartliegh,” she heard Decken say in a low voice, “I din’ think he’s goin’ ta make it.”

“Aye, he’ll be dead ‘afore the mornin’.”

“Then maybe we should…”

“Grown a pair have ye?”

“I can’t do it.”

“I didna think you could. Come on, then. The sooner it’s done the more time we’ll have to bury him.”

Heavy footfall moved away. Sansa scampered around the tree, drew her dagger from her cloak, and started cutting Rickon’s restraints. The boy was blue and near unconscious. He tried to speak through his gag but Sansa motioned for him to stay silent. The two men knelt beside Tal and prayed. As she dragged Rickon back behind the tree, she heard a resounding snap echo through the woods.

Sansa removed her cloak and threw it over Rickon. He was still stiff. She hoisted him up with difficulty and nearly carried him till blood returned to his legs and he moved himself.

“Why, you filthy _BITCH_!” she heard Harleigh roar.

“Rickon, darling, run! As fast as you can!”

“Sansa...” Rickon protested.

“Please, my love, do as I say.”

He bounded ahead. She did too at first, but her legs lost all feeling. Her chest constricted from the cold, forbidding air to enter her. Harleigh caught hold of her braid and yanked her off balance. Cool steel pressed against the base of her neck. His mouth was at her ear when he snarled:

“I already lost one brother to a bitch. You best not be thinkin’ I’ll let another one off so easy.”

“Harleigh!” Decken panted, “Harleigh—It’s her!”

“Shut your mouth!” Harleigh’s grip on her tightened.

“He said, ‘just the bastard.’ He’ll no’ give us the rest if we didna obey his orders.”

“Who sent you?” Sansa asked, struggling to break free, “Whatever he’s offered, I’ll give you double. Just let us go!”

Harleigh barked at Decken: “Don’t jus’ stand there. Go after the boy, ye daft prick!”

Sansa clasped her dagger tighter against her dark cloak. Trying to relax, she drew a calming breath. She pushed herself into Harleigh, slashed him across the arm, and ducked out of his grip as he reacted. Even if the snow was not slowing her down, she would not have been able to outrun Decken. He tackled her to the ground, pinned her to the snow, and knocked the dagger from her hand. Fisting a handful of snow into his face, Sansa tried to wriggle free from underneath him. They wrestled, rolled, clawed, and shoveled snow at one another. Leather fingers encircled her neck and squeezed. Her own hands felt about for her dagger in the snow, but it was most likely buried somewhere beyond her reach.

Throat straining to draw breath, Sansa used her remaining strength to push at the brute’s face. She hoped Rickon was faster than her, that he found his way to the castle. She hoped Jon found Osha and oh, how she wished she could see him one last time. Her balled fists slackened, but she kept fighting. Giving up was not an option. Not after everything she had endured.

A wolf’s growl ripped through the night air. It was promptly followed by the blood curdling cries of a man, and moistened crunch of flesh being shredded. Decken was pulled off of her by the hood of his cloak and throne off. A longsword rose in the air, catching the moonlight, before swooping down upon his neck, spattering her face in warm blood.

Sansa coughed violently as a pair of strong arms pulled her up.

“Sansa,” Jon murmured, his voice trembling with fear. His warm hands vigorously rubbed at her back, “Breathe, Sansa. I’m here. I’m here. Right here, my love.”

“Ri—Ri—cha—“ she was overcome by another coughing fit.

“Ssh, ssh, ssh,” Jon cooed, promptly throwing his cloak over her, “He’s with Ser Davos and Shaggydog. Do you think you can walk, my love?”

Sansa nodded, but her chest still felt heavy and stiff. Jon whistled Ghost over and helped her onto his soft, warm back.

They caught up with Ser Davos and Rickon just beyond the Wolfswood. Shaggydog hopped on three legs. The sellswords must have hurt him when he tried to protect Rickon.

“Sansa!” Rickon hurried over to her. “Is she—Jon, what’s wrong with her?”

“She’ll be fine, lad. She’s a strong woman, your sister.”

She felt a small hand slip under her own. She returned his affection with a slight squeeze. Their hands remained locked together the rest of the way to the castle.

***

Jon was at a loss for what to do.  He wanted to be at two places at once, but there was only one of him. Sansa still coughed herself hoarse and Rickon was a nervous wreck. He had always believed honor and duty to be forces at odds. Never had it occurred to him that love could be at odds with itself.

Following Sansa’s suit made things easier. Seeing her fret over Rickon’s well-being told Jon that the child had to come first, even though he didn’t wish to leave Sansa unattended. He ordered a hot bath be readied for her, and took Rickon by the hand to his bedchamber. He sat him down before the hearth and kindled the fire till it burned bright and warm. The brave lad tried to seem strong, but silent tears streamed down his face. Unable to bear Jon’s eyes on him, he turned his back to him.

“It’ll be alright, lad,” Jon wrapped his arm around him, “It’s all passed now. They won’t come back, I promise.”

“It was my fault,” he sobbed, “I thought Sansa wasn’t trying hard enough, so when she left, I snuck out…and then the man said he’d seen Shaggydog but was too scared he’d get hurt if he tried bringing him to me. And now Sansa’s hurt. I’m her brother. I’m supposed to be watching over her.”

Jon pressed his lips to the top of his head and smiled. “There’s time to do that yet, lad. Until you’re a man grown, you can let me worry about Sansa’s safety.”

Rickon shrugged out of Jon’s embrace and looked at him, almost angrily. He wiped at his tears and pumped his chest. “Where’s Osha?”

“I don’t know,” Jon sighed, “She wasn’t at the Wildling camp like Sansa thought. I looked all about for her.”

“Did they kill her? The men who took me?”

“I don’t know.”

“But it’s likely, isn’t it?”

Jon didn’t answer.

“She never did anything. It was you they wanted.”

“Rickon, did you hear them say the name of the man they worked for.”

“No. Just that he’s rich with great power.”

Jon ruffled his hair and stroked his face affectionately. Gods, he looked so much like Robb did at ten years of age. The girls would be fighting over him in a few years’ time—that is if the world wasn’t overrun by white walkers by then.

Rickon flicked his hand away and catapulted himself, face-first, onto the bed. Sighing again, Jon drew the bed furs over him.

“Tomorrow we’ll break our fast together, the three of us, and it will feel better. You’ll see.”

“Do you love, Sansa?”

Caught off-guard, Jon was tongue-tied. Rickon flipped onto his back. His eyes narrowed in observation.

“Of course, I do, ” Jon gulped.

“As your _sister?_ ”

“Rickon…I don’t—“

“Bran told me. In the godswood at Skagos.”

“Bran?” Jon’s eyes widened, “Rickon, Bran was with you at Skagos?”

Rickon shook his head. “He spoke to me. Through the Heart Tree.”

“Rickon…”

“He showed me things. Things that happened. He showed me two figures in the Godswood at Winterfell. I thought it was mother and father at first, but then I saw it was you and Sansa. And then I saw father—he was much younger—and Aunt Lyanna. She had a babe who he brought to Winterfell. It was you, Jon.”

“Rickon,” Jon gasped, his voice near inaudible, “why didn’t you say anything?”

Rickon cast his gaze down. His hands toyed with the edges of the bed furs. “I wanted things to be as they were. As if nothing happened. As if Mother and Father, and Robb, and Arya, and Bran are just away. As if they’ll return home someday. I didn’t want to be afraid anymore.”

“You know,” said Jon, sitting beside him, “I’m afraid all the time. As is Sansa. Even Ser Davos. You wouldn’t think _he’d_ fear anything, now would you? You never stop being afraid. Do you know why? Because there’s too much to love—too much worth fighting for around us. It’s when you have nothing to fear that you’ve got nothing worth living for. You have a family, Rickon. _A home_. That’s a great deal more than many.”

“Then…it’s alright if I’m afraid things will be different? That I’m afraid you’re not my brother, but something else?”

“Lord Eddard Stark himself trembled in his boots thinking of what the truth of my parentage implied. It’s quite the complicated yarn.” Jon smiled down at Rickon’s concerned face. “It was good of you not to say anything. You will make a fine lord to Winterfell when you’re grown.”

This made Rickon smile.

Jon tucked him in tightly within the bed furs. “You’re sure you’re warm enough? Can you wiggle all your toes and fingers?”

Rickon giggled and nodded.

“There’s a good lad,” Jon said, kissing him on the forehead. “It’s getting late. Try to get some sleep now.”

Rickon covered Jon’s large hand with his and shut his eyes. Kicking off his wet boots, Jon pulled his legs onto the bed and lay beside Rickon and counted his soft breaths.

***

Sansa excused her handmaids. She wished to be alone. Having tied her long tresses in a bun atop her head, she submerged herself from the neck down. The bath was piping hot but the chill refused to recede.

This was all Littlefinger’s doing. She knew it in her heart that it _had_ to be him. And she didn’t see it coming. Her lack of foresight had almost cost Rickon his life. And Jon’s. _Perhaps you’re not as clever as you thought you’d become_ , Littlefinger’s voice taunted her.

But the longer she lay in her bath ruminating, the more Littlefinger’s scheme seemed the act of a desperate man. Surely he didn’t think Jon would go after Rickon unarmed. Surely he didn’t think a few common thugs were enough to kill Jon. He was present for the Battle for Winterfell. He knew what Jon was capable of with his sword and yet…

A soft knock at the door tore her from her thoughts. “Enter.”

In came Jon. He stopped in his tracks on seeing her in the tub. He must have presumed she would be done by now. “I’m sorry, I’ll come back later.”

“It’s alright, Jon. How’s Rickon? Is he too upset?”

He closed the door, but remained standing by it. “He’s a brave lad. He’ll be on the mend soon enough.”

Sighing, Sansa slumped further down into the water. Her teeth chattered.

“How are you feeling now?” Jon pressed, “That brute had his hands about your neck.”

“Mmm,” Sansa traced the spots where he had touched her. They stung. She could still feel his hands pressing down on her throat. “They’ll bruise, that much is certain. No word of Osha?”

“No. I fear the worst.”

Sansa brought her knees to her chest and hugged herself. “It was Littlefinger.”

“That seems likely. Rickon says they were sent to kill me. I dare say, it wasn’t the most intelligent scheme.”

“I was thinking the same.”

He sat on the far side of the bed and twiddled his thumbs. Sansa hugged herself tighter. She had begun trembling.

“The water’s gone cold,” Jon observed.

“Mmm.” Sansa nodded. “Hand me a cloth.”

Avoiding the sight of her naked body in the tub, Jon handed her a drying cloth and turned his back to her. Sansa rose to her feet and dried herself. Padding over to Jon, she rested her hand on his shoulder.

“Jon, I’m cold.”

“Oh umm…perhaps—your cloak is still wet. I can arrange for another, if you wish.”

Turning him around to face her, Sansa pressed her naked body into him whilst undoing the ties of his jerkin. “No, I have a dragon who can warm my bed tonight,” she whispered, moving her lips against his jaw, nibbling on his earlobe.

Jon’s hands ran down her arms and found her arse. His fingers traced up the length of her spine before burying themselves in her hair. Her bun came loose. Soft, fragrant auburn her spilled over his hands and her back. He pulled at it hard enough to tilt her head back and look her in the eye.  

“I won’t have you regretting this come morning,” he rasped.

“No, not regret. I almost died tonight, Jon. The only thing I’d regret is not knowing your touch one more time.”

She tilted her chin up, beckoning for him to take her lips. After a moment’s hesitance, he caved with such passion that Sansa felt she might faint from want of air. Fumbling with the ties of his jerkin to no avail, her hands travelled lower to yank at the stays of his breeches to free his cock.

“Gods, Jon your touch is fire to my skin. Feel me,” she took his finger and dipped it between her legs, “Feel what you do to me.”

Jon pulled his jerkin off without breaking their kiss. He made to rid himself of his breeches and small clothes, but Sansa shoved him onto the bed without warning. She climbed on top of him and hovered over him. He guided her lower to kiss her. She responded by biting into his bottom lip savagely before marking his exposed skin down his neck. Clawing his long tunic off his cock, she ran her fingers through the coarse hair around it before giving it a few sharp tugs. The sharp hiss it elicited from Jon drove her mad. She straddled his hips without further fanfare, and slammed her dripping cunt onto his cock.

Jon’s mouth was agape in equal measures of pain and pleasure. His head fell back on the furs, and his hands lay lax at its sides, paralyzed by the twin sensations of her tight warmth around his cock and the sight of her belly ruthlessly undulating on him as she sought friction against her sensitive nub. She was a woman possessed, grinding into him with the furious conviction of a warrior charging into battle.

Sansa’s nails raked over Jon’s scarred torso, sending his eyes rolling to the back of his head. The pressure building inside him too fast, he squeezed his eyes shut and remembered the salaries owed to each and every member of his guard.

“Touch me, Jon,” Sansa commanded, with a forceful roll of her hips. They both moaned.

Jon opened his eyes to find Sansa watching him. She reached her hands out for his and guided them to her breasts to squeeze and knead.

“Like that,” she whimpered, throwing her head back. “Don’t stop.”

Pulling her down, Jon suckled on a taut nipple as his callused hands skidded down the damp slopes of her waist, cupped her arse cheeks, and felt her slick folds working up and down his hard shaft. Sansa braced herself against the headboard and rocked against him, tiny bolts of lightning travelling down her legs as his tongue swirled about her nipples.

A sharp smack to the arse made her stiffen in surprise and gasp in pleasure.

“That’s it, my lady… _nnnh…_ fuck me,” Jon ordered with a growl. He landed another smack to her arse. “Fuck me like it’s your last day living.” _Smack!_ “Fuck me like my cock’s the only thing granting you passage to heaven.”

“ _Yes…_ ”

He sat up to grant her more friction where she needed it. “Go on, my lady. Harder.”

“ _UNNGH, JON!”_ Sansa wrapped her legs around him, and burying her head in the crook of his neck, as the tremors took hold of her.

Jon gritted his teeth, and suppressed a wolfish howl as her cunt fluttered, then clamped down on his cock. “Sansa…I can’t…I’m going to—“

Sansa was too far gone to hear what he said. She went on rocking and rubbing against him, consumed by wave after wave of pleasure washing over her. She managed to regain some touch with reality when she felt her back touch the bed furs, and felt Jon retreat from her.

Pulling him back with a heel to his arse, she fisted his collar and shook her head. The words, “no” and, “stay” tumbled from her mouth in a delirious flurry.

“It’s been too long,” Jon pleaded, tried to break free from her, “I won’t last much longer.”

“No, no, no, no,” she chanted, out of breath. Wrapping her arms around him, she pulled him down flush against her body. “The Gods have made us endure so much, Jon. If this is their will, it is a trial we’ll embrace with open arms.”

Jon raised his head to read her thoughts. Gone was the King of the North; all the sorrow and guilt he had harbored over the past six years. His expression was now a mixture of awe, innocence, and happiness, making him look a good deal younger. Lips quirked up in a disbelieving smile, he stroked the damp hairs from her face, “You’re certain?”

Sansa dug her heels into his arse. “Please, my lord.”

Kissing her with all the love his body could muster, he resumed pumping into her. Sansa moaned from the aftershocks of her peak as his strokes became more erratic, and his cock began to pulse inside her. He muffled his cries against her neck as he came. His cock grew limp but he did not have the strength to part from her, nor did he particularly want to. They may have lain so for hours for all they knew.

Jon had all but fallen asleep when Sansa stroked his arm gently. “Jon, I need to use the chamber pot.”

He quickly rolled off her so she could get up. When she had relieved herself behind the screen, and returned, Jon had redone the stays on his breeches. A grave look darkened his face.

“What is it?”

He nodded behind her. “Those scars on your back. Who did that to you?”

Sansa smiled contemptuously. “The Kingsguard. On Joffrey’s orders. For being complicit to Father’s schemes in overthrowing the crown. Thinking about still gives me the shivers.”

“Forgive me, Sansa. I didn’t know.”

“It’s in the past,” Sansa waved it off, getting under the furs. She patted beside her. “Come.”

Jon looked away. “We should be careful.”

“Littlefinger’s gone, Jon. Perhaps not for good. But for the time being, we’re safe.” She tugged at his arm. “Please, don’t leave me alone tonight.”

How could he say no? Pulling off his clothes, he climbed into bed and held her in his arms as they both drifted off to sleep.

***

Jon had thought it all a dream when he woke early in the morning. But she was there, snoring softly beside him, pressed up against his hardened cock. He longed so much to wet her folds with his touch again, perhaps take her from behind, but judging by the dim blue light of the sky, it was already quite late and the castle would no doubt be stirring by now.

“Where are you going?” Sansa mumbled as he began rustling about the room, dressing.

“To check on Rickon. I’ll have to send men to retrieve the sellswords’ bodies from the forest.”

His heart soared at the sight of Sansa sitting up; the furs falling from her, exposing her exquisitely pale and rounded breasts.

“You’ll have time to break fast with Rickon and me, I hope,” she grinned sleepily.

Haphazardly tucking his tunic into his breeches, he leaned down to kiss her. “I promised him last night I would.”

“On your way then, my lord.”

“I’ll have you know I’d rather spend the morning ravishing you.”

Sansa slapped him away and shooed him off. An irrepressible grin brightened his face as he left her chambers. Nothing could dampen his spirits this fine morning.

Nothing perhaps, besides the gruff tones of Ser Davos clearing his voice. “There you are, Your Grace.”

Jon froze in his tracks. The Onion Knight’s scrutiny of him could have burned a hole in in chest. He knew how it looked: The contented grin on his face, the disheveled hair, the red patches at the base of his neck, the tunic hanging loose from his breeches, his jerkin draped over his forearm. All this in addition to the simple fact that nobody else lived in these parts of the family quarters. Oh, Jon knew how this looked, and he couldn’t quite meet Ser Davos’ eyes when he spoke.

“Good morning to you, Ser Davos.”

“Mm-yes, I’m sure.” The old man said with a look of confused disapproval, “I’m sorry to trouble you, your Grace but there’s been a raven.”

Jon knit his brows, all embarrassment forgotten. “From Edd?”

“No, no, not as yet. The raven was penned by Tyrion Lannister on behalf of one Daenerys Targaryen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers!!! I meant to have this up earlier but I wrote then rewrote the smut a few times because you deserve nothing but the best quality smut ;) Exciting times up ahead. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and leaving comments!! <3


	18. Hushed Celebrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Dadvos up ahead.

Jon stilled. _Targaryen_. It was so strange hearing that name in terms of the present. Maester Aemon had told him of Daenarys Targaryen. While it had stunned him to learn of Maester Aemon’s Targaryen heritage, it had thrilled him to learn there lived yet another Targaryen who was around the same age as he was.

And now Tyrion Lannister, a man he’d had many a conversation with on his journey North, was writing to him on her behalf. It was as good as knowing her in person!

“He’s made it across the Narrow Sea then?” Jon inquired, stopping himself from tucking his tunic into his breeches. It would only attract more attention to his disheveled state.

“Across and back, your Grace, as Hand to the _Mother of Dragons_ ,” said Ser Davos.

“These southerners aren’t much different from us then,” Jon snorted. “They call me the White Wolf, you know.”

“Yes, a name given to you, no doubt, for the sanctity of your honor, but also for your possession of a white direwolf. Likewise, this Targaryen girl is in possession of not one but three fully grown dragons.”

Jon cocked his head in disbelief. “No.”

Ser Davos shook his head. “Oh, yes. And that’s not all. She brings with her a highly trained army of Unsullied from the free cities and a Dothraki horde. The letter states an intent to restore the Targaryens upon the Iron Throne. You are to meet her at Dragonstone to discuss an arrangement.”

“An arrangement? If it’s the Iron Throne she wants, she can have it. Who sits on the Iron Throne is of no concern to me.”

“Perhaps,” Ser Davos peered over his shoulder, “we should read the raven in its entirety in Lady Stark’s presence. She has a fine eye for reading between the lines, and she may well save us much confusion and ire. You don’t survive under someone like Baelish without possessing a firm grasp of how the game is played, and if I’m not mistaken, this Tyrion Lannister _was_ her husband.”

Jon clenched his fists. “Yes, yes…she will have valuable insight on the matter.”

Ser Davos considered Jon with curiosity before bowing. “The events of last night must still weigh heavy on your Grace and her Ladyship. We can put off a council meeting till later in the day.”

“Aye, I’d like that very much. Rickon will be needing tending to, and oh, I’ll need reliable men sent to the Wolfswood to burn the sellswords’ bodies. Instruct them to search their belongings for any payment they may have received. I also want a few men searching the neighboring lands for any sign of Osha. If she’s dead, Rickon will want to know.”

“Yes, your Grace.” Ser Davos cleared his throat, “I’ll tell your squire to busy himself elsewhere for a short while so you can untidy your bed furs.”

“Ser Davos, I can—“                                                               

Ser Davos shot him a fatigued look that told him he didn’t want to hear it.

“Thank you, Ser Davos. Truly.”

Back at his chambers, Jon threw the bed furs to one side before rolling about in bed. He sponged himself clean, dressed, and tamed his curly locks in a bun. His squire arrived with a razor and some warm water to trim his beard. On completion, he headed to Rickon’s chambers to see if he needed help dressing.

Rickon jumped at the slightest sound or touch, but he endured quietly and did his best to appear brave. He asked after Sansa like a dutiful brother. Jon’s reassurances of her well-being didn’t seem to convince him.

They bundled up and met Sansa downstairs for their morning walk to the Godswood. Remembering what Rickon had told him the  night before, Jon ran his fingers over the face carved into the Heart Tree.

“Can you hear him now, Rickon? Can you hear Bran?”

Sansa’s brows knit together in question.

Rickon shook his head. “It doesn’t happen all the time. Just sometimes when he wants to speak to me.”

“Bran?” Jon called, pressing his palms onto the face, “Bran? Can you hear me? It’s Jon.”

“What are you doing?” Sansa asked.

Rickon looked from her to Jon. On receiving a nod of encouragement from Jon, he told her about the visions Bran had shown him while at Skagos.

“Rickon…Why didn’t you—“

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” Jon interjected seeing Rickon on the verge of tears, “What’s important is there are no secrets between us anymore. We may be a true wolf pack once more.”

He kissed Sansa’s temple and drew Rickon into their joint embrace.

“Bran’s alive,” Sansa whispered into the crook of Jon’s neck.

“Aye.”

“Rickon, did he tell you where he is?”

Rickon shook his head.

“Bran was the smartest of us all,” Jon grinned, squeezing them both before releasing them, “I trust he’ll find his way back home to us.”

They returned to the castle to break their fast. Rickon grew progressively skittish the emptier Jon and Sansa’s plates got. Privy to his unease of being alone, Sansa allowed him to accompany them to the small council meeting. She brought with her some parchment, ink, and a quill for Rickon to practice writing his letters with.

The Imp’s letter was courteous and charming, yet also managed to unsettle Jon. Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen was due to arrive at her birthplace of Dragonstone within a moon’s turn. Sailing under her command were a Dothraki horde and an army of Unsullied. But that was not all. She had allied with the Sandsnakes of Dorne, Olenna Tyrell of Highgarden, as well as Yara and Theon Greyjoy.

A faint whimper cut through the tension building in the chamber as Ser Davos read the letter. It was Rickon. Winterfell was being sacked the last time he heard the name, Greyjoy.

“It’s all right, lad,” Jon said softly, “They’ll not come here again. Not while we’re watching you. Go on, get back to your writing. There’s a good lad.”

The letter requested the King of the North present himself at Dragonstone to parley the terms of Daenerys Targaryen’s ascension to the Iron Throne. It went on to state that failure to do so may be interpreted as the north’s rejection of ‘Her Royal Highness’’ birthright which would not be taken lightly.

“Well, the foreign wench seems to know how to make friends,” Tormund huffed.

“Her arrival is troublesome to say the least,” Ser Davos scratched his beard, “On the one hand, she seems to have in her possession the power to overthrow Cersei Lannister, but on the other hand she’ll be setting these animal Dothraki on Westoros, free to rape and pillage as they please.”

“You’d do well to watch yer tongue, Ser Knight,” Tormund spat. “The same was said of us Wildlings before you let us through.”

“Ser Davos is right,” Sansa said to Tormund’s dismay, “I’ve heard the Dothraki kill their own for spectacle and treat their women like cattle to be bred. The Westorosi will not take kindly to their arrival, and aligning ourselves with them will not do us any favors.”

“But say it is true, what the Imp says about her…and her dragons,” Jon mused, “We’d be at their mercy if we refuse.”

“True,” Sansa nodded, “I took the liberty of reading Maester Aemon’s missives from the free cities while we were at the Wall. Daenerys Targaryen has not shown much interest in the fine art of negotiation. She takes what she wants by force, and eliminates opposition without playing at cloaks and daggers like the rest of us.”

“I dare say she’s lived up to her name,” Ser Davos said despondently.

Jon’s breath faltered.

Reaching for his hand under the table, Sansa spoke: “Whatever her name may be, we must act to serve the best interest of our people. It will not do to defy this—this Mother of Dragons only to have her burn our home to the ground. We’ll have to think of a way to appease her while still remaining independent.”

“The Mad King burned our grandfather and uncle alive,” said Jon, “If we are to form any kind of alliance with her, I will face another mutiny. And this time I won’t be alone. I can’t risk Rickon and you getting in harm’s way.”

“Which is why we must look at who marches alongside her,” Sansa said, fishing out map markers and lining them at the center of the table. “Tyrion Lannister. Olenna Tyrell. The Sandsnakes and House Martell. And the Greyjoys.”

“Theon Greyjoy is a coward and a traitor. He’s not to be trusted.”

“All right, we’ll put the Greyjoys aside for now.” Sansa removed the Kraken marker from the line, “The Sandsnakes will be looking to avenge Oberyn Martell’s death. They want Cersei gone, but I don’t know them well enough to say what they intend to do with the Targaryens once she’s overthrown.”

“What of Tyrion Lannister?” Ser Davos inquired, “How is it that a Lannister has allied with someone who intends to usurp his sister?”

“Believe me, there is no love lost between Tyrion and Cersei.”

“Then as your once husband, perhaps he is the key.”

“That would seem like the logical thing to do but…here, let me read the letter again.”

Ser Davos handed the parchment to her. They watched her in silence as she read it and reread it.

“When I knew Lord Tyrion, he was Master of Coin to Joffrey Baratheon, and he harbored great disdain for those in power. Actually he harbored disdain for the idea of power itself. This letter doesn’t reflect any of that. If I were to be so bold, I would say it’s almost reverential of the Targaryen woman. I don’t doubt that she shares her brother’s legendary beauty, and Lord Tyrion has been known to have his head turned more than a few times.”

“The wench’s got him under her spell, you mean,” Tormund clarified.

“Yes.”

Jon knit his brows. “But didn’t you yourself admit Lord Tyrion was the more rational of the three Lannisters?”

“Lord Tyrion is one of the most intelligent creatures I’ve ever met, but in this case, I’m afraid his partiality to her may cloud his judgement. One only need see how he writes of her. He absolutely worships her.”

“Is that jealousy I detect in your tone, my lady?” Jon teased.

Sansa kicked him, eliciting a pained groan.

Ser Davos leaned forward with the utmost gravity. “If I may...it is my understanding that the Targaryen heir was born the year of Robert’s Rebellion, making her no older than the both of you. This Tyrion Lannister seems to have ample knowledge of the North. Perhaps it is not his intention to make Lord Snow bend the knee but to forge an amicable alliance through marriage.”

Jon grabbed Sansa’s retreating hand and pinned it to his knee. His eyes shot daggers at Ser Davos across the table.

“You are freed from your vows, Lord Snow,” Ser Davos defended himself, “As King of the North, you would have had to choose bride sooner than later.”

“Need I remind you there is a war coming our way, Ser Davos?” Jon snapped, “This is no time to entertain the notion of lavish weddings. We need to prepare for the Long Night.”

“And what greater preparation can you make besides adding three fire-breathing dragons to your arsenal?”

“If she’s as much a stunner as Lady Stark says,” Tormund grinned, “well, that wouldn’t be so bad would it? Or are you afraid your pecker isn’t working proper after the stabbing?”

“Lord Giantsbane!” Sansa reprimanded.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Tormund suppressed his laughter, “He made it too easy.”

Ser Davos’s grim expression didn’t wane. “I only mention this so that Lord Snow isn’t caught off guard if he’s presented with an offer. For all we know, this girl could be happily married to some nobleman from the free cities.”

“Thank you, Ser Davos,” Sansa said evenly. Underneath the table, she slipped her hand from Jon’s clutch and pet him. “But there’s still Olenna Tyrell.”

“After the massacre at King’s Landing,” Jon looked at the Rose Marker on the table, “she’s just as vengeful as the Sandsnakes.”

Sansa nodded. “But Olenna Tyrell is a strategist to the core. I know her to be capable of great foresight. We speak of the woman who wished to see her granddaughter become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. When she realized Joffrey would make a poor husband, she killed him without a second thought because there was a spare Baratheon for Margaery to wed. It’s her. She’s the key.”

“But she’s already sided with the dragons,” Jon said, forehead creased from deep thought.

“Because dragons have greater odds of winning. But Olenna Tyrell’s no fool. If I can judge the Targaryen woman’s character from here, she’ll most certainly see it after meeting her in person. If she also believes her unfit to rule, then that’s where you come in, Jon. You must go to Dragonstone and endear yourself to Lady Tyrell! Then, when you refuse to bend the knee, Daenerys must think twice before declaring war on the North. If she does, she loses Highgarden’s support.”

Jon looked at Rickon who had abandoned his exercises completely. “I can’t leave, Sansa. We’ve only just come home.”

“I know, but it must be done. There’s no other way.”

“I agree,” Ser Davos said gruffly.

“I’ve never been that far south,” said Tormund.

Sansa toyed with the map markers again. Jon watched her as her mind considered and discarded ideas. She looked formidable and beautiful. Gods help the woman or man who dared cross her.

“There is something else I need you to do for me there,” she said to all three men present, “The Skagossi have agreed to send us their stock of dragonglass, along with smiths capable of fashioning them into weapons. But we haven’t got any money to pay them.”

“The Skagossi returned you the boy, didn’t they?” Tormund asked, “I thought their kind was loyal.”

“We’d do well to keep them in our good graces with fair payment. Highgarden would have the funds to tide us over. I’ll write to Willas but it would be a great help if you broached the issue with Lady Tyrell herself.” A confident smile lit up her face as she turned to Jon. “You’ll be the one leader with a plan. It’ll only bolster her opinion of you.”

They spent the next hour hammering out various details. Jon was to take Ser Davos, Tormund, and a handful of his guard to White Harbor from where they would board a ship to Dragonstone. They were all to remain mum on their journey’s purpose. Word reaching Littlefinger had to be avoided at all cost. Jon was uneasy enough leaving Sansa and Rickon alone so soon after his failed assassination attempt.

When the meeting adjourned, Jon returned to his tasks about the castle as usual, but found it difficult to put his heart into them. He was already counting the days and hours he had left with his family. With Sansa. It felt an awful waste to spend it away from her. He would have cursed the Gods had he still believed in them, but he knew there was no grand puppeteer dictating what became of them. He was just one very unlucky bastard.

Ser Davos’ suggestion of a political marriage to placate Daenerys still made his skin crawl. Much as he tried to forget, it kept nagging at him all day.

_She takes what she wants by force, and eliminates opposition without playing at cloaks and daggers like the rest of us._

_Are you a true turncloak, Jon Snow?_ Ygritte had taunted him under his furs, _Why don’t you prove it? Break your vows with me. Do it or I’ll have them slit that pretty little neck of you._

Jon swallowed the bile forcing itself up his throat. Discreetly removing himself from his men, he hunched over to steady his breaths. _You’re home now,_ he repeated to himself, _You’re back home with Sansa and Rickon. With Sansa. With Sansa. With Sansa._

As his senses returned to normal once more, a foreign weightlessness took hold of him. It was plain as day that Daenerys Targaryen’s forces were going to usurp Cersei Lannister from the Iron Throne. There was to be a Targaryen reigning over the Seven Kingdoms again. He smacked his palm against his forehead and laughed. _You really do know nothing, Jon Snow._

He raced about the castle in search of Sansa. She was in the midst of an audience with the Wildling and Northern women.  Startled, and perhaps more than a little amused, the women rose to their feet to curtsy when he burst in.

Sansa shared her companions’ bewilderment. “Jon, what’s the matter?”

“Ladies,” he said with an abashed bow of the head, “forgive me but I must steal your Lady away for a moment. We won’t be long.”

Without further explanation, he grabbed Sansa by the hand and pulled her up a flight of stairs to an isolated room where he was sure they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“Marry me!” He said breathlessly, unable to suppress a bout of nervous laugther. “Marry me!” He begged with a kiss. “Marry me, Sansa. Marry me.”

She grew rigid under his touch. “What?”

“Sansa, how could we have been so foolish not to see?” He cupped her face. “If this Daenerys ascends to the Iron Throne, then I can claim my true name. We can be together out in the open. I will be yours and you will be mine, and not a soul can tell us what to do.”

“Jon, you’re not thinking.”

“No Sansa, listen to me. Last night when we came together…what did you say to me? We’ve endured so much already. If this is a sign, why shouldn’t we act upon it?”

Sansa removed his hands from her face and drew away. “Jon, if you reveal yourself as Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, you will have a greater claim to the Throne. After everything I’ve told you about this woman, do you truly believe she’ll accept you with open arms?”

“Others take the Iron Throne! I don’t want it. I just want to spend whatever time I’ve got left with you.”

“I’ll always be here, Jon,” she cast her eyes down, “and Winterfell will always be your home.”

“And what if Davos is right?” Jon seethed, “What if I _am_ being called to Dragonstone to forge an alliance through marriage? You may be able to live with that, Sansa Stark, but if you think I’ll endure another woman forcing me to bed her, you are mistaken.”

“Jon, please!” Sansa turned her back to him. “I don’t know what you expect me to do. If you reveal yourself, you’re as good as dead. That might not matter to you, but it does to me! And poor Rickon just got us back. How will I face him if something were to happen to you? What will I tell him when he asks why the man he adores was killed?”

Seeing her slender frame rattle under the layers of fur, Jon wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “I’m sorry.”

“I’d hoped you could avoid the issue of marriage by planting seeds for trade,” Sansa muttered, suppressing a sob.

“I know, my love. I know.” Jon gently rocked her in his embrace.

“But nobody thinks of such things in times of war.”

“I’ll make them think of it. For us.”

Sansa spun around in his arms and pulled him in for a kiss. The world around them—castles, parleys, assassinations, dragons, white walkers—melted away. There was only Sansa and the love she gave him. If she thought it best not to marry, then so be it. _Seven hells_ , if she thought it best to burn everything from here to the Wall, he would do it for her.

Her soft thumbs passed over his tender lips when they parted. She had that look on her face again—the one she got when she was struck by an idea but still finding words to articulate them. Jon leaned over and kissed away the crease that had formed between her brows. In response, she scratched his beard as if he were Ghost.

“What if…” a mischievous spark brightened her blue eyes, “Yes…What if?”

“What if, what?” Jon chuckled, planting another kiss in her hair.

“Jon Targaryen can’t wed Sansa Stark,” she smiled, “but Jon Snow can wed Alayne Stone.”

“But—Alayne Stone doesn’t exist.”

“Of course she does. You need only ask the folk of House Vale. What do you say, Jon? Will you marry me?”

“Sansa, I—“ he searched her face, “You would take the title of a bastard for me?”

“It’s but a title. I’ll still be the woman you love.”

“Wear it like armor…” Jon grinned.

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll marry me?”

“Yes,” she squealed as Jon’s lips crashed onto hers, “Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes!”

Jon all but crushed her to him. His hands slipped under her furs and roamed the wool of her dress. Before long, he had Sansa sitting atop a reading desk with her skirts hiked up to her knees. Her nimble fingers were making quick work of digging through his furs, and undoing the stays on his breeches.

“Mmm,” Sansa moaned as Jon pulled at her stockings and stroked the inside of her thighs, “I do believe it’s customary to perform such rituals _after_ the wedding, Lord Snow.”

She freed his hard cock and stroked it with a feather light touch. Jon pushed her onto her back in a dizzying frenzy, and sucked the breath from her with his kiss.

“We’re bastards, my lady,” he growled, sucking a mark under her ear, “Such norms need not concern us.”

***

Ser Davos, Tormund, and Val stared at them, slack-jawed.

Tormund shuffled about in his seat trying to be serious, but burst into laughter. “Well, I’ve seen a great many things— _Seven Hells_ , I’ve fought the Others, but I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous.”

For a marriage to hold any legitimacy, Jon and Sansa needed witnesses. As the true son of Eddard Stark, Rickon’s blessings would have sufficed, but they both wanted to share their joy with the handful of people they trusted the most.

“I can’t say the same for myself,” Davos said. His expression was grave as always, but Jon noticed a glimmer in his eyes he’d never seen before. “I’ve had the misfortune of watching a woman give birth to shadow creature.”

“You mean a southron child?” Val grimaced.

“No, I mean a being made of black smoke, created by evil itself, but I digress. I only meant that this isn’t the strangest thing I have encountered.”

Sansa smiled in hope. “So you will give us your blessings?”

“I don’t see how any of us are in a position to give you our blessings, my lady,” Ser Davos returned her smile in kind, “We are under _your_ command.”

“You can speak for yourself, good Ser,” Val chimed in.

Jon covered Sansa’s hand with his for everyone to see. “We are both orphaned, my lord; orphaned without many true friends. Sansa and my coming together must remain a secret for the safety of the realm, but we have no reason to be ashamed. Your blessings will be the greatest honor we could hope for in this life.”

“Well, we certainly can’t forbid you from going through with it. I trust you’ve given thought to the implications of such an alliance. Your children will be Snows. Lord Baelish may reveal Alayne Stone’s true identity should he learn of this marriage. An alliance with the Dragon Queen will be more complicated.”

“Yes,” Sansa looked at Jon, then back at Ser Davos, “Yes, we’ve considered it and we’re prepared to face the consequences.”

“Then,” Ser Davos turned to Tormund and Val for confirmation, “there’s nothing more to say on the matter. We’d best get to work. There’s not many days left till we leave for White Harbor.”

***

Over the next two days, Rickon obsessively practiced signing his name. He wanted it to be perfect when he signed Jon and Sansa’s Proof of Marriage. Sansa composed the document herself, wrote out a copy, and instructed Ser Davos, Tormund, and Val to decide on sigils for their respective houses and have seals made for the occasion. Enlisting Val’s help, she searched her mother’s trunks for her wedding dress. It was ivory in color with silver and blue embroidery along the neckline and waist.

Val, with all her indifference for finery and opulence, was completely enamored by it. “It’s so striking,” she mumbled, running her hands over the soft fabric.

Sansa smelled it for her mother’s scent. Nothing. “Too striking. I can’t wear this. It’ll draw too much attention from the maidservants.” Her eyes welled up as she laid it out on the bed to admire. “Perhaps one day I’ll have the good fortune of seeing my daughter wear it.”

In the end, she decided to wear the green dress her Aunt Lyssa had sent her—The one she had been wearing when she and Jon first confessed their love to one another. A few adjustments had to be made about the shoulders and chest, but it looked just as lovely on her now as it did almost seven years ago.

For the day of the wedding, she ordered a boar be hunted and broiled for dinner, and had casks of ale and wine brought up from the cellar for the castle. A more modest meal was arranged for the folk in Winter Town. Having endured years of lawlessness and cruelty, the people of Winterfell and Winter Town did not question the free meals coming their way. A wedding was the farthest thing from any of their minds.

In the early hours of the morning of, the wedding party gathered to sign both copies of the Proof of Marriage. Jon Snow and Alayne Stone signed first. Rickon went next, grinning ear to ear. He didn’t have to scratch out a single misshaped letter. Sansa signed beside him as Sansa Stark, and stamped the Stark seal beside their signatures in wax. The others followed suit.

“Does Lord Snow steal Sansa now?” Val smirked, “Or are you southerners too uptight to admit to doing such things?”

Sansa and Jon exchanged a look and blushed.

“That can wait till after the ceremony,” Ser Davos said. “Come along now. As far as the castle knows, nothing of note has come to pass this morning. There are chores needing tending to. Out. All of you!”

***

Jon stood in the crypts, bathed, shaved, and dressed in the Snow’s cloak from his youth. He tried praying as Uncle Ned had taught him and Robb as boys. For the dead—his own parents, Sansa’s parents, and Robb. For the living. For Sansa’s health and happiness, and for any children she might bear. For forgiveness for the ill he had done, and for the ill he would do. Moved to tears by the end of it, he lingered under the shadow of his mother’s statue. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined this day would come.

Ser Davos’ approaching footsteps broke him from his pensive trance. The elderly man patted him on the back. “The chill down here will give any good man cold feet. Even Jon Snow.”

“There’s nothing alive or dead that can keep me from marrying Sansa,” Jon declared, “I was just thinking what my Uncle would have said had he been here.”

“He’d probably lop your cock off for seducing his daughter.”

Jon’s mouth turned up in a cheeky grin.

“I lost my son at Blackwater, so I never got to give him any fatherly advice on his wedding day. I hope you don’t mind if I give it to you.”

“Not at all, my Lord.”

“Marriage is more than a wedding. I hope you know that. Now, I know the Long Night’s coming, but in marrying Sansa now, you are making her a promise to do your absolute best to stay alive, you hear? You will not leave her a widow running this castle on her own, is that understood?”

“Understood. Thank you, Ser Davos. For everything.” He threw his arms around him in a hug.

Rendered speechless by the show of affection, Ser Davos patted him on the shoulder. After an awkward silence, he jolted into action. “Don’t keep your woman waiting, boy. It’s poor form.”

***

Watching Ghost and Shaggydog chase each other about the Godswood made the wait bearable for Jon. Just a little. Lanterns had been hung in the Godswood to mark her path to the Heart Tree. Beside him, Tormund sniggered at his nervous disposition.

“Don’t worry,” he nudged Jon’s shoulder, “you’re as pretty as a fresh summer’s day. The Lady’s not likely to run screaming from ye.”

Val joined in on the teasing, but the party was silenced in a heartbeat as Sansa and Rickon’s silhouettes approached like specters through the flurry of snow. The most brilliant smile adorned Sansa’s face. Jon couldn’t will his vision from blurring. She was happy. He had made her happy. Something about that weakened his knees.

“Who comes here before the Old Gods?” Ser Davos’ voice boomed over whirring wind.

Sansa lovingly squeezed Rickon’s hand. He recited his rehearsed lines: “Sansa of House Stark, a woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessings of the Old Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“Jon Snow, bastard of House Stark and Targaryen, and King of the North.” He tore his eyes away from his radiant bride to give his brother a conspiratorial smirk, “Who gives her?”

“Rickon of House Stark, her brother.”

“Lady Sansa,” Ser Davos spoke, “do you take this man?”

“Yes.”

“Lord Snow, you may bestow your cloak upon your bride.”

Jon’s mouth hurt from smiling. He draped his own cloak over her, chuckling on recognizing the green dress she wore.

“Good Lady, you may look upon your husband now.”

“And what a handsome husband he is,” Sansa said flashing him another smile. The cold had turned her nose and cheeks a rosy pink.

Without further delay, Jon laid claim on her lips to the sound Tormund and Val’s lewd encouragement. Despite Sansa’s giggles, he went on kissing her again and again like some overzealous green boy. When they drew apart for air, he rested his forehead on hers.

“Sansa?” His teeth chattered.

“Yes, lord husband?”

“If I’m not cloaked very soon, my balls won’t be in order for our bedding.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Lovely Readers!!! Hope that was worth the extra wait. I'm super sorry I didn't reply to comments for the last chapter but I have read them all and truly appreciate all the love you leave me. Until next time...muah!


	19. A Dream of Spring

Supper that night was a long and merry affair. Ale was passed around generously and Jon commenced their small feast by cutting into the broiled boar’s neck. Tormund surprised the party with a fiddler, and all but threw Sansa into Jon’s arms for their first dance as lord and wife.

“My, my,” Sansa teased her husband, her cheeks rosy from drink and joy, “somebody still remembers not to look at his feet.”

“I had a difficult master,” Jon said against her hair, “Threatened to spank my bare arse for the slightest misstep. Good thing she likes a good spanking herself every now and then.”

When the hour grew late, and the ale’s thrill had been replaced with weary yawns, Jon took a dozing Rickon to his chambers for the night. Sansa bid the rest of her wedding party goodnight and retired to her own chambers. She changed into a sheer nightrail, unbraided her hair, and brushed some oil into it till it gleamed in the firelight.

Her heart leapt at the sound of a knock at the door. In came Jon wearing an expression that was both tender and smug.

“Little Master Rickon is safely abed and asleep,” he told her, depositing his thick cloak on an arm chair. He wore nothing but a tunic, already tented about the groin, and his boots underneath. “The bed in the Lord’s chambers has been sufficiently tousled.”

He slid his boots off one by one, and stalked towards her.

“You are a man of duty and honor, Lord Snow,” Sansa said meekly, through her lashes, “It must be terribly tiring, having to attend to so many matters of such crucial value all day long.”

He threaded his fingers through her hair, undoing all her brushing, and brought her face a hair’s breadth away from his. “I must attend to one final matter before night’s end, my lady.”

Fingers raking down his torso, Sansa moaned: “And what might that be?”

Jon bestowed a gentle kiss on her lips, but his hand tugged hard at her soft hair. “I must consummate my marriage to the fair lady I’ve wed.”

“Why, I’m sure she’ll welcome you to her bed with open arms.,” Sansa said breathlessly, “Are you nervous, my lord?”

“My wife _has_ been known to be quite the ferocious wolf,” Jon smirked.

“Forgive me for being so bold, my lord, but you mentioned the cold might have affected your…” Against her stomach, she felt the unnamed member twitch. Wearing a sly smile, she pulled his tunic up and sank down to her knees. “Perhaps I may be of service.”

“Sansa, wha— _unh, fuck!_ ”

Following her hand with her mouth up and down his cock, Sansa swirled her tongue about its head and tasted the dollops of his seed seeping from it. She disengaged with a _pop_ and looked up at him with big doe eyes. “Does the lord fare better now?”

He stroked her cheek whilst bucking his hips into her touch, “ _Ggrrrh…Sans-ah!”_ His eyes squeezed shut as she wrapped her lips around him again.

She quickened her ministrations and had the idea to graze her teeth along his length. The ecstatic cry it elicited from him slicked the inside of her thighs with her own juices. When she felt his cock throb against her tongue, she instinctively sucked harder. Her free hand stroked up the inside of his thigh and traced the soft skin under his balls.

Jon frantically tugged her off him by the hair just as his seed shot out in short spurts down her chin, and the base of her neck. Sansa watched him catch his breath, hunched over. When his eyes met hers once more, she pushed some of his seed up her chin, into her mouth almost victoriously. Claiming her lips again, he gathered her in his arms and carried her over to the bed to lavish her body in ardent kisses.

He brought her a wet cloth to clean herself with, and watched her use it as if she were performing the most mesmerizing dance. They got under the bed furs and reveled being in the other’s embrace, _as husband and wife_.

Jon broke their silent admiration. “We did the right thing, didn’t we?”

“I think so,” Sansa played with his beard, “The Dragon Queen can’t force your hand if you’re already married.”

“But to wed _knowing_ the Long Night approaches— Sansa, I may leave you a widow.”

“I’ll hardly be the first widow in Westoros,” Sansa snapped, pushing him away and turning her back to him.

“That’s not what I meant, my love. I’m sorry.” He brushed the hair from her face and pecked at her neck. “You’ll forgive my foolishness, won’t you sweet wife? Please?”

His whiskers tickled her, eliciting a fit of giggles. “Hmm,” she continued giggling as he found her lips, “perhaps my lord regrets marrying a plain bastard girl. Perhaps he wanted to marry the Dragon Queen after all.”

Jon broke away and shot her a stern look. Though it sent a chill up her spine, she couldn’t help her amusement. She remembered something she had been meaning to discuss with him since they’d received the raven.

“Jon, I lived under Cersei for years. I know a woman intoxicated by power, and I know Daenerys will do everything in her power to sway you. She may be like Cersei and force you with a blade to your throat, or she may use a woman’s wiles on you.”

“I’ve known the misery of breaking oaths,” scoffed Jon, “I’ll never break the one I made you. Only in death.”

“I don’t doubt it. That’s what frightens me. Jon, you must handle her advances delicately—Shy away from them without giving offense. You need not succumb but you must at least entertain her pursuit.”

“You wish me to tease another woman? Like the prized whore does a vagabond?”

“The Lannisters accused Father of treason because he didn’t take care to disguise his hatred for them. He confronted Cersei and payed the price. Honor is an admirable principle to live by, but it’s a foolish banner to flaunt in front of someone with no understanding of it.”

Jon huffed and trained his eyes on the ceiling. “I can’t abide by these petty games with the threat beyond the Wall looming so large.”

“Sweet husband,” Sansa brushed her lips over his ear, “you’ve chosen to fight for the living, and so long as you fight for them, you must play by their rules.”

“I know,” he sighed, “If only everyone saw reason instead of whatever in Seven Hells they’re playing at. At times I wish to sit back and watch the Seven Kingdoms freeze over…let everything die. Then the world can be reborn and children can know a safer, gentler world.”

Humming in agreement, Sansa curled up into Jon’s side. “And they will know the warmth of the sun, be healthy, and frolic in green meadows, collecting flowers by the armful.”

“The carefree days of summer…it all seems like a dream now.”

“Our dreams are all we have left, Jon. Our dreams and each other. If we don’t see them through, nobody will.”

“Aye,” he squeezed her to him, eyes welling, “I’d like to wake to the first leaves of spring with you by my side and maybe—if the Gods wish it— our babe in my arms.”

Sansa’s breath faltered. “You really want that?”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

Tracing the bridge of his nose playfully, Sansa asked, “You only dream of the one babe? Does that mean you’ll stop taking your lordly rights with me once I’ve given you a son?”

“I’ll take the whole litter, if you’ll give it to me,” he said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Rolling onto her, he buried his face in her neck whilst stroking up her soft thighs. “Two girls and two boys.”

He slid her nightrail’s sleeves down her shoulders for access to her teats. Down below, he caressed her slickening folds and teased her nub. An appreciative moan from the back of his throat reverberated through the length of her body as he suckled her nipples to stiff peaks. Pressing two fingers into her wet warmth, his pace following that of her rocking hips, he drew from her quiet but contented gasps of pleasure.

Sansa stretched her arms over her head, arching her back to let the building pleasure reach every strand of her being. She bit down on her bottom lip as she beheld her husband above her, deftly working his fingers with the look of a pilgrim at worship. Her gasps became whimpers which became soft cries.

“Inside me, Jon. I need you inside me.”

He pulled off his tunic and nestled himself in between her legs, aligning the head of his cock with her cunt. “I only ask one thing,” he breathed into her ear huskily.

“Yes, husband?”

Pushing himself inside her excruciatingly slowly, he groaned, “Promise— _mmph—_ promise me our daughters won’t be as beautiful you.”

There was no avoiding it. Sansa guffawed. Her walls fluttered around his length, and Jon stilled so he didn’t spill so soon.

“Does that amuse you, my lady?” he asked with feigned incredulity. “You think I’d approve men doing to my daughters what I do to you?”

Sansa’s fits of giggles showed no signs of waning. He silenced her with a sharp stroke in and out of her, and set a steady rhythm that had them both breaking into a sweat despite the cold. Jon rested his forehead on hers as he felt her walls tightening around him. “I love you, Sansa.”

“I love you— _uunh!_ ”

They lay awake long after they had caught their breath. They didn’t want this, their wedding night, to end. Sansa yawned and nuzzled the crook of Jon’s neck.

“I’ll make sure our daughters are fairer than me,” Sansa mumbled, “That way you’ll _have_ to come back to scare the lads away.”

***

The days leading up to Jon’s departure passed in a frenzy of managing day-to-day chores, planning Winterfell’s fortification, enlightening Jon and his envoy on political intricacies of the south, and desperately making love. The time, both nerve-wracking and giddying, found Jon and Sansa slipping into parts they had imagined playing since children. Jon still harbored reservations about leaving Sansa and Rickon by themselves. At the same time, he felt gratitude for how different circumstances for his leaving Winterfell were this time.

He picked up a parcel wrapped in cloth from the blacksmith on the eve of his departure and headed to Sansa’s chambers. It was empty. He found her in his own chambers, folding his tunics and smallclothes, and slipping them into his saddlebag. Ghost watched from the hearth, wagging his tail lazily.

“You shouldn’t have gone through the trouble,” Jon placed a kiss on her head.

“I suppose you were going to make Ghost gather your things?”

“He is capable of doing more than you give him credit for. No matter, you’ll have plenty of time to learn the tricks he’s got up his sleeve when I’m gone.”

His decision to leave Ghost at Winterfell did not sit well with Sansa. “His place is by your side,” she insisted.

“Sansa, please. Give me the small mercy of knowing Ghost will be here to protect you in my absence.”

Shaking her head, Sansa’s gaze fell on the parcel he held. “A token for the Dragon Queen?”

“A wedding present for my wife,” he corrected, placing the long but small parcel in her hands.

Within the wrapping cloth was a slender dagger with a hilt made from grey marble fashioned to look like a wolf. Engraved on its blade were the words: _Stone and Snow._ By the look of it, Sansa was more baffled by the gift than she was in awe of it.

“I want you to keep it with you at all times. Val’s not a fighter so to speak but she’s a capable ranger who knows how to work a knife on a beast. I want you training with her every day.”

Sansa made to protest but he cut her off. “I’m following your instruction on how to conduct myself in the south. Now you must do as I say. Promise me.”

Smiling, Sansa leaned in for a kiss. “I promise.”

Jon shoveled the last of his travel things into the saddlebag and cleared the bed before settling down beside Ghost to sharpen Longclaw. Sansa sat across from him, watching him in silence. When he was almost finished, she checked his work with her thumb, cutting it in the process. She didn’t flinch. She only bent down and kissed the flat of the blade.

“I was forced to do that against my will once,” she said, fire in her eyes, “I wanted to do it for a real hero.” She rubbed the blood oozing from her thumb behind his ear. “You’ll always have my prayers with you. Always.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to come back to you, Sansa. I promise.”

***

Their farewell in front of the household was measured and chaste. Rickon concealed his trepidations of being Lord of Winterfell in Jon’s absence well. Sansa took him up to the battlements once Jon and his men left the castle. They watched their forms recede into the horizon. They remained there a while, staring at nothing in absolute silence.

“Will you give your frightened sister your hand, Rickon?”

Pumping his chest out and flashing her a brave grin, he wrapped his small arms around her waist.

“Come, I’d like some tea and lemon cakes now. They might even have a few kidney pies in the kitchen for you.”

Bearing the brunt of Jon’s responsibilities around the castle, Sansa had little time to lament his absence that first day. Only after nightfall, when she retired to her empty chambers with a dull ache nagging at her back, did she truly feel his absence. She unconsciously reached for his solid warmth as she dozed under the furs and whined when her hand came upon nothing but cold bed linens.

Her handmaids woke her up the next morning, concerned. She had overslept. Rubbing sleep from her eyes she tried to shake the heavy sense of lethargy bearing down on her. It had just been a day since Jon left. The first day of, Gods knew, how many. She had drawn out a rough estimate of how many days it would take him to reach Dragonstone which she could take comfort in counting. But there was no knowing how many moons the Dragon Queen would keep him there.

All her counting in moon’s turns reminded her of something else. Her moon’s blood. She had not shed it in a turn and a half.

***

Jon hoped he could look in on Sansa through Ghost when they were apart. He had done it many a time—meld his mind with Ghost’s in his dreams—but he hadn’t realized such occurrences had become rare since the Red Lady brought him back from the dead.

There were nights when the day’s ride south rendered him too tired to dream. Other nights, when they had the luxury of a bed at an inn, he dreamed of being on the battlefield outside Winterfell again. His men closed in on him. Crushed him. They eventually suffocated and piled over each other. A gust of snow blew over them, raising them to their feet again. Their eyes were a pale blue and their skin was made of ice. He saw the Night King and his horsemen approach.

 _No._ He chanted as he fled, _I made a vow. I have to go back. I have to go back._

He had some luck some three days away from White Harbor. Spotting a weirwood by the inn they stopped at, Jon excused himself from the rest of his travel party to clear his mind with prayer. In his submission, he tasted raw meat on his tongue, smelled the familiar aroma of kidney pies baking in the oven, and heard the booming voice of Winterfell’s cook shouting orders to the kitchen boy. He padded through the castle’s corridors in search of Sansa. A glimpse of her auburn hair, and a faint whiff of her lavender scent was all he managed before he returned to himself.

The night after, he frantically clawed at the castle’s South Gate, frightening the guards with his howls. Shaggydog joined him in his song. Jon felt a thrill coarse through his veins, but there was also suspicion and fear.

 _What is it boy?_ Sansa’s sweet voice called. He hurried over to her and basked in her caresses. _Come now, it’s well past our bedtime._

He whimpered in protest, but followed her to her chambers where he nestled by her side on the bed.

They were at White Harbor awaiting the ship for Dragonstone to be readied when Ghost’s restlessness visited Jon again. He had wandered over to Wintertown in pursuit of a scent that was familiar but foreign. He was sure he was close to finding the scent’s origins, but he only met one dead end after the other.

Jon had half a mind to turn around and return to Winterfell. The foreign presence near Winterfell troubling Ghost could have belonged to another one of Littlefinger’s assassins. He sought Ser Davos’ counsel on the matter. While the old man sympathized with him, he reminded him that delaying his parley with Daenerys Targaryen could cost him the realm.

“I can assure you Lady Stark has learned her lesson from Lord Rickon’s kidnapping. She will do her part to keep herself and the young lad safe. Now you must do yours.”

So with a heavy heart, Jon boarded the ship to Dragonstone. It took him a few days to find his seaman’s legs. The warmer weather didn’t and dismal food didn’t help his stomach. Castle life had apparently softened him. Once he grew accustomed to the constant swaying and the musty southern air, he was able to look into Ghost’s mind again. All seemed well and Sansa seemed content despite his absence.

Their journey south was speedy once they crossed the Fingers. They were a few days past the Bay of Crabs when the ship’s crew cried out in horror at the sight of an enormous green reptilian creature with wings spanning the length of an entire keep tearing across the sky. Its screeching cry gave everyone gooseflesh.

 _Dragons_. They were very much real.

The Island of Dragonstone was imposing and dismal to behold, even more so than the solemn but hardy structure of Winterfell. The fortress rising from the choppy waves was made of black stone, its walls fashioned to resemble dragons. Around it, there seemed to lie nothing but desolate and infertile land.

Present to greet them ashore were the Imp, Tyrion Lannister, and a portly bald man with a powdered face. To Jon’s chagrin, they were flanked by armored soldiers and heavy-set men in tanned leather garb with long, well-groomed, braids running down their backs.

“The Bastard who managed to rise through the ranks after all!” the Imp said in good humor as Jon disembarked from the row boat. “Welcome to Dragonstone, Lord Snow.”

“Lord Lannister,” Jon smiled, bowing his head, “you look worse for wear than when I saw you last.”

Tyrion passed his hand over his mangled nose, “Yes well, war, imprisonment, drink, and whores can do that to a man. Does he not look the picture of Eddard Stark, Lord Varys?”

The bald man appraised him with a raised brow. “Indeed. For a moment, I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.” He bowed deep. “My Lord, an honor. I am Varys.”

“…the Master of Whisperers, as I understand,” Jon added congenially.

“You have heard of me then,” Varys chuckled, “From your dear sister, no doubt.”

“How is sweet Sansa?” Tyrion inquired. “I understand she played a hand in ousting the Boltons from the North.”

“Sansa is a good deal happier now that she’s home,” Jon’s stated gruffly.

“Good to hear. I do hope our shared past doesn’t affect our efforts to better the realm.”

“You underestimate my sister’s pragmatism, my Lord.”

Gauging the intimidating welcome party behind Lords Tyrion and Varys, Jon glanced over his shoulder at Ser Davos, Tormund, and his men. They looked to him in confidence but their unease didn’t escape him.

“My men and I have come at your request,” Jon said, taking care to keep the defensiveness he felt at bay, “We bear no weapons besides that which we require to prove our titles.”

“Of course, Lord Snow,” Varys said with another bow. He spun around and ordered the armed guard to disperse. “The Queen and her council have already convened. They await your presence. You’ll find Lady Tyrell most eager to meet with Sansa Stark’s half-brother.”

“My men and I have journeyed long and far for the sole purpose of making Lady Targaryen’s acquaintances. As well as Lady Tyrell’s. But we’ve but arrived. Our voyage has left us weary and I’d like to wash and change into something fit to wear before a queen.”

“You’re already prettier than half her council, Lord Snow. The fate of Westoros cannot wait a moment longer,” Tyrion called over his shoulder. He was already heading to the castle. “You’ll find Daenerys a charming woman, but she detests to be kept waiting.”

Jon did not move.

“Oh, come, come,” Tyrion chided, “surely the King of the North isn’t anxious to meet his match.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! So alas our babies are separated once more, but as Jon mused--they are apart under better circumstances. Still! It is my intention to bring the drama to the table. And no, Jon is not going to cheat on Sansa so if you're worried about that, please don't be.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and leaving comments!


	20. Spokes on a Wheel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Jon-centric chapter where he puts his training under Sansa to use. The Result? Jon's not so sure.

Signaling Ser Davos to accompany him, Jon followed the Imp up the shore to a back entrance into the castle. _So much for a King’s welcome,_ Jon thought to himself. Uneasy about leaving his men alone at the mercy of the Dothraki and Unsullied, he kept peering over his shoulder. Not that there was much he could do if he noticed any signs of aggression. He and his men were grossly outnumbered. Even more troubling—his people back home had no idea where he was. If something were to happen to him, they’d think him a deserter. A coward.

The dank narrow corridor they entered opened into a vast cavernous space that gave the impression life as he knew it did not flourish here. Jon felt small and unsure about being up to the task. He and Sansa had tried preparing for every eventuality but neither really knew what they were up against. Jon’s first priority was his people but then so were Rickard and Brandon Stark’s. Dying had never frightened Jon before, not even when he’d charged into battle against the Boltons. But now, facing a fate eerily similar to that of his grandfather and uncle, facing the possibility of losing the future he could have with his family, he was terrified.

“The keep we’re in right now,” the Imp tore him from his anxious thoughts, “is known as the Stone Drum. Aegon the conqueror used to conduct his small council meetings in the Chamber of the Painted Table at the very top. But given my state, as well as old Lady Tyrell’s, Her Grace has forsaken the chamber and moved council meetings to a location that’s easier to get to.”

 _How noble of her,_ Jon refrained from rolling his eyes.

“Seeing that it is your first time meeting her, however,” Varys chimed in, “she will be meeting you in the Throne Room.”

Offering him a close-lipped smile, Jon walked in silence.

“You really are so much like your father,” Varys admired his solemn look, “Such a shame what happened to him. He was a truly good man.”

“My family has endured much amidst these squabbles over the Iron Throne, Lord Varys.”

“Tragic,” Tyrion lamented, “The image of my dear wife’s face in mourning after hearing of the Red Wedding is still etched in my memory.”

Glowering at the little man waddling in front of him at full speed, Jon grit his teeth. “Your marriage to Sansa is void, my lord.”

“It is, it is…” sighed Tyrion, “She was so distraught the night of our wedding that I simply could not go through with it. Lovely girl, your sister. I daresay, if things go well between you and her Grace, I may have the honor of meeting her again.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to me. Sansa’s a very willful woman.”

“No doubt, no doubt. I expect no less from someone’s who’s survived my sister’s tyranny.”

The castle got warmer as they neared the throne room—too warm for Jon’s comfort. He wished to shrug his northern furs off, but he had nowhere to put it. Jon begrudged the Dragon Queen refusing him a detour to his chambers. He did not wish for his sweat to be mistaken for nerves.

Upon entering the throne room, Jon registered an array of curious faces—all unfamiliar—flanking the aisle leading up to the throne, but the focus of his attention was the small, silver-haired woman bedecked in black and red sitting on the throne upon a stone dais that seemed to sprout from the floor. Jon was awestruck by the sight of her, not because of her beauty—though there was no denying her beauty—but because she was the last link to the father he never knew. They were kin, yet he was hard pressed to find any physical resemblance between them.

“Your Grace,” Varys bowed as Tyrion took his place beside her, “I give you Lord Jon Snow, Undead King and Warden of the North, Once Sworn Brother and Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.”

All eyes in the room bore down on him expectantly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Varys nervously smile at him.

 _You’re a king chosen by your people,_ Sansa had told him over and over, _Never forget that and never let them convince you otherwise._

He folded his hands over his stomach and bowed his head in respect. The Dragon Queen hid her affront poorly. She straightened in her seat, pumped out her chest and addressed him looking over the tip of her nose:

“Welcome to Dragonstone Lord Snow. I am Daenery Stormborn. Mother of Dragons, Unburnt Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and Breaker of Chains. But you only need know that I am Aerys Targaryen’s only living heir.”

Jon chuckled: “I’m afraid my memory isn’t all that sharp. I’ll have to write that one down.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Daenerys joined in, disdain clear in her eyes.

“I didn’t know the usurper’s sycophants had it in them to jest. I was told northerners were a sullen lot.”

“We are men like any other, your Grace,” Jon said with a pleasant air. He realized now was his chance to make an impression on the houses riding with Daenerys. _So long as you fight for the living, you must play by their rules._ “We’re no different from you.”  

“There is no other like me, Jon Snow,” Daenerys asserted. Her violet eyes challenged him to claim otherwise. “And when I have the Iron Throne, there will be no king or queen besides myself presiding over the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Your Grace,” a concerned Tyrion leaned over to counsel her, “perhaps…”

Daenerys waved a hand, demanding silence. She locked her jaw as she regarded Jon’s façade of calm.

“My Lord Hand wrote to you over two moons ago demanding your presence. I expect there’s a good reason for such brash disregard for keeping important engagements.”

Jon itched to speak plainly, but he heard Sansa’s voice as though she stood beside him. _You must flatter her whilst standing your ground._

“I offer my apologies to your Grace, but the task of restoring a land ravaged by war and injustice to its former glory fell to me. I also had to make provisions to prepare the north and the Night’s Watch for the darkness that lies beyond the Wall.” From the corner of his eyes he spotted a withered woman in black fidget in her seat. “I was troubled by my inability to come to you sooner, but I took comfort in knowing you may have experienced something similar while at Meereen.”

Tyrion gawked at him. “You’re saying you’re familiar with affairs beyond the narrow sea?”

“Some of it, aye.” He said to Daenerys: “Your uncle, Aemon Targaryen was maester at Castle Black. He received news of your progress regularly. Maester Aemon treated me well. He’d share news of your victories with me to pass the time.”

A spark of excitement lit up Daenerys’ violet eyes. Jon only wished Sansa was there to squeeze his hand as a reward for a job well done.

“All this time, there was another Targaryen,” Daenerys smiled. “And now I’ll never see him because I was forced to live out my life in exile.” Blinking away the mist forming in her eyes, she put on a mask of cold resolve.

“No matter,” she said evenly, “the time for remorse is passed. Now is the time to look to the future. You know why you’re here Jon Snow. You have more reason to depose the Lannister whore than anyone else in this room. Bend the knee to me and, not only will I remove her from the Iron Throne for you, I’ll grant you and your family pardon for betraying my father.”

Nodding in careful consideration, Jon looked to Ser Davos. Outwardly, his companion seemed unfazed, but he knew him well enough to know present company irked him.

“It is an attractive offer, your Grace,” Jon finally said, “I’m sure the realm will be most grateful to be free of Lannister tyranny.” He flashed the Imp a silent apology which was promptly waved off. “But it puts me in a spot. I’m sure Lord Lannister’s told you of our northern customs. The King of the North does not lay claim on his people. His people lay claim on him. I can’t bend the knee unless the northern houses choose for me to bend the knee.”

“Then you will show them the light, Jon Snow.”

“Us northerners…” Jon shook his head, “…we have a long memory. Your father burned my grandfather and uncle alive along with countless others. Do forgive me for being so blunt, your Grace, but they won’t take kindly to your return.”

“Then perhaps they can share the same fate as your kin,” she said, her voice calm, her words practiced. “My dragons would be more than happy to oblige. Make no mistake, Jon Snow, I will have what is mine.”

A nervous energy stewed in the air. Jon became acutely aware of the sweat soaking through his underclothes and seeping through his leather garb under his thick furs. The strangers watching them converse so intently shuffled about and fidgeted in their seats. Jon wondered if they knew what Daenerys was like all along. Sansa knew from just reading a letter.

“I saw one of them on the way here.” A sad smile graced his weary face. “Magnificent creature it was. I don’t doubt your dragons will be crucial in seizing what is yours. But I wonder what good it would do to conquer a realm, if all that’s left to rule is its ashes.”

“Hear! Hear!” a ragged voice cried. It was the elderly woman in black. Jon noticed a rose-shaped brooch on her person—Olenna Tyrell. Her eyes were alight with zeal.

Incensed, the Mother of Dragons shot a silent warning Lady Tyrell’s way before returning her gaze to Jon. He had either angered her beyond salvation or intrigued her. Either way, he had made his position on and understanding of Westoros known to her allies. The smallest word or gesture could tip the scale in his favor or otherwise.

“The way I see it,” he said after what seemed like an eternity, “You have the upper hand. The Westorosi know Cersei Lannister’s faults. They don’t know yours. The benefit of their doubt—that’s what you have, your Grace. Now, you may prove to them that you are no better than Cersei by burning your subjects or you may set out to win their hearts.”

Exchanging a look with the Imp, Daenerys pursed her lips:

“And how would you have me do that, Jon Snow?”

“Protect the realm from the army of undead beyond the Wall. Winter is here, and it won’t be long before the Long Night is upon us.”

Tyrion burst into laughter. “Don’t tell me you’ve actually come to believe those old wives’ tale, Lord Snow.”

“They’re not old wives’ tales. The Others, Wights, the Night King—they’re all real. I’ve fought them beyond the Wall, seen what they’re capable of. There was a time when we thought dragons were a creation of old wives as well. If they’re real, why not the Others? What reason would I have to come all this way to rave about creatures conjured by my imagination?”

“If these…Others are real as you say,” Daenarys said with the air of a lioness who has cornered her prey, “why not bring us proof?”

Jon swallowed his contemptuous retort with an audible gulp. “Because it’d be foolish to risk raising the dead this side of the Wall,” he said quietly.

“Then you are lying, Jon Snow. A child could smell your ruse to lure me north.”

“Perhaps it is a ruse, perhaps it’s not. That’s a gamble you’ll have to make.”

“I grow tired of this nonsense,” a woman’s voice bellowed. It belonged to a tall, willowy woman with raven locks and wheat colored skin. The dead Martell’s paramour by the looks of it— _Ellaria Sand_ , if Jon recalled correctly. She directed her biting words at Daenerys. “Oberyn’s death is yet to be avenged and his murderer sits on the Iron Throne. If you’re not going to consider any counsel this man has to offer, you can spare us the charades and come clean with your intentions for summoning him.”

Daenerys’ cheeks flushed with rage. Sighing as though this was a regular occurrence, Tyrion tutted the Dornish lady.

“Yes, well…” grumbled Tyrion, “…I’d hoped to breach the matter with a little more delicacy, Lady Sand, but I suppose these indelicate times require indelicate means.” To Jon he said: “I am well aware of Northern customs, Lord Snow. Perhaps not as well as you, but I understand the nature of your title. Bending the knee may lose you the support of the north, but it is my understanding that a marriage will be perceived as a joining of two equals. You will retain the support of your subjects, and Daenerys will, as you say, ‘win the hearts of the people.’”

Nervous butterflies fluttering in his stomach, Jon did his best to appear calm. Sansa had prepared him for this. He need only repeat what she had said. “You are not wrong, Lord Lannister. That would certainly be the easiest solution.”

“So you are agreeable to the notion?”

“I would have been had I not been married already.”

Whispers erupted about the throne room. Jon felt Daenerys, Tyrion and Varys’ gazes could have burned a hole in him.

“It was before the Battle for Winterfell. Before I’d been declared King of the North. I’d just been freed from my vows to the Night’s Watch. I’m sure you can understand the impulse.”

“This…queen of yours,” Daenerys said tartly, bitterness glazing her eyes, “is she of noble stock?”

“No, your Grace. She is a bastard as I am. My brother and sister were taken aback at first, but they were kind enough to give us their blessing.”

With a nod to confirm, Ser Davos dug out the Proof of Marriage from his cloak and handed it to the Imp for examination.

“Alayne Stone,” Tyrion read, “A bastard of the Vale.”

“My wife, aye.”

He caught Varys looking at him curiously.

Daenerys snatched the parchment from her Hand and read it herself. “No matter. Targaryens have been known to take several wives.”

“Your Grace, I’m no Targaryen,” Jon crooned flatly. “I am a man of Winterfell and I can’t shirk my duty or traditions.”

The Mother of Dragon’s stiff posture slackened, and she leaned back on her throne, looking weary all of a sudden.

“And now I have upset you.” Jon flashed her a sympathetic smile. “You’ll find I’m far more amiable when I have a full stomach and some rest.”

Varys stepped forward from his place at Daenerys’ side, “Of course, my lord. Warrior or not, you must be weary from standing and speaking after such a long journey.” He turned to Daenerys in a silent plea to adjourn.

Daenerys scowled but nodded in resignation. “I hope you find your rooms to your liking, Jon Snow. We’ll continue when you’re rested.”

***

At his modest chamber, Jon washed and took his afternoon meal with Ser Davos in the solar. He visited his men, checked if their lodgings were adequate, and made queries as to whether Daenerys’ men treated them well enough. He spent the rest of the day surveying the island with his men and tried his best to acquaint himself with the Dothraki and Unsullied. While the Unsullied only acted on Daenerys’ orders, the Dothraki were innately belligerent. They did not speak the common tongue and seemed to have no regard for Westorosi custom. Even Tormund was taken aback by their ways. Thousands would suffer at their hands if they were unleashed upon the mainland.

During the survey, they crossed passed with a petrified Theon Greyjoy. The skeletal creature was a shell of the rakish boy Jon had known in his youth and he did everything in his power to dodge Jon’s advances. Jon grabbed him by the collar of his cloak and demanded he explain his treachery against House Stark. Breaking into violent sobs, Theon offered him a garbled apology.

“Those boys—not Bran and Rickon. Jeyne not Arya. I tried my best, I did. All gone. Forgive me, Jon! Forgive me!”

“You may not have killed Bran or Rickon, but Robb’s blood is on your hands.” Jon shoved him away and stormed off to his chambers. Theon’s broken spirit haunted him long after. _What did the Bolton bastard do to him?_

The day’s events coupled with fatigue from his voyage left Jon feeling strung out but sleep eluded him. He wished Sansa was with him to talk things over. He wished to tell her she had been right, that her tactics had made an impression on Daenerys’ entourage. He wished to hear her speak of Winterfell’s fortifications, if she had heard back from Willas Tyrell about the loan for the dragonglass. He wished to bury himself deep inside her, make love to her, and free themselves from the shackles of their earthly troubles for the night.  

Jon took himself in hand and stroked himself to the memory of Sansa engulfing him in her warmth until he spilled his seed. He succumbed to sleep soon after, finding himself nuzzling into Sansa’s touch in her chambers at Winterfell. Dressed for bed, she gave her locks a few last strokes with her brush before braiding it. Humming a sweet lullaby, she opened one of her chests and drew from it the dagger he had given her. She placed it under her pillow and got under the bed furs. _Good girl._

He climbed in after her and rested his head on her stomach. Eyes trained on her serene face as his lids drooped, his blood rang with a fierce protectiveness over her—more so than usual. Later, Jon thought Ghost may have been trying to compensate for his absence.

The curtain closed on Winterfell and opened to the night sky. Strong winds stung his eyes to tears. He soared in the air, flying higher and higher before abruptly circling down and sinking. The sea was miles below but he hurtled towards it at an alarming speed. He braced himself for impact but the crash never came. He skidded over the choppy waves, feet dipping in them playfully. He uttered an ear-splitting shriek before batting his arms harder, raising himself higher up in the air, towards the orange glow of morning peering out form the horizon.

Jon woke in his bed at Dragonstone with a peaceful sigh. He took a moment to remember where he was. Morning’s first light—grey and dreary—streamed through gaps between drapes.

_Dragonstone. Miles away from Sansa._

Sitting up in bed, he looked about to see if one of his men had entered. It seemed like someone had called him, yet there was nobody there except him.

The distant memory of a call nagged him as he washed and dressed. It was telling him to go somewhere though it did not tell him where. Jon’s instincts took over. He followed the silent pull through the winding corridors of the sleeping castle, beyond its grounds to an isolated spot on the island’s shores where a mother could tend to her beastly child without frightening her subjects.

Daenerys caressed the enormous snout of the white dragon as it chewed on a goat carcass. Having finished, it spat out its bones. Sensing Jon’s approach, Daenerys’ reproach remained unspoken. The dragon growled and bore its teeth at Jon, discouraging him to come any closer.

Jon was content admiring it from afar. He grinned with childish glee, “My brothers and sisters would’ve given a hand and a foot to see a dragon for themselves. My brother, Bran, loved the stories of old. And my wu—Sansa…my sister—talk of such creatures and the magic they’re tied to used to bring tears to her eyes.”

Daenerys smiled at him. “This is Viserion.”

Bowing, Jon looked the dragon in the eye. “Hello, Viserion.”

Daenerys continued fawning over her dragon. Watching her in silence for some time, Jon asked, “How are you liking it, your Grace? Returning home?”

“It’s cold.” Noting Jon’s disappointment in her answer, she shrugged. “It’s just another place, isn’t it? Even though it is mine.”

Sighing, Jon drew closer, but not too close. “I can begin to understand what you’ve been through, your Grace. As a lad, I wanted nothing more than to be Lord of Winterfell. Mighty dreams for a bastard to have. Even when I knew such a thing wasn’t possible, I hoped. I wanted it too much.” He chuckled wryly. “I was exiled to the Night’s Watch because they had no place for me at Winterfell, and I lived among thieves and rapists and murderers for five long years.”

“And now you’re a King,” Daenerys observed. The edge to her voice had worn off somewhat.

“And now I am a King.” Jon smiled. “We’re not that different you and I. We’ve both suffered. And we’ve both been denied the place we call home.”

“You think my place is on the Iron Throne?” Daenerys quirked a brow at him.

“Aye, and I think you have it in you to capture it by the best means possible.”

Daenerys knit her brow in deep contemplation. A confident, almost sweet, smile lit up her face when a thunderous roar pulled both their gazes up to the heavens. A second dragon—the green one Jon and his men had seen at sea— swooped in beside Viserion and craned its neck out. Ignoring Daenerys’ outreached hand, it stalked towards Jon expectantly.

Seeing Jon shrink from the gargantuan beast, Daenerys called after it. “Rhaegal! Come to me.”

“Rhaegal…” Jon whispered with a smirk. Named after his father.

The beast lay on its stomach and held its head out in a slight bow. Nervously glancing at Daenerys for permission, Jon reached out and stroked the dragon’s snout. It hummed a sated growl much like a cat’s purr. Jon closed the distance between them to study him. When he glanced up, he found Daenerys watching the two of them, wearing an expression akin to fondness. But he could have sworn he also saw a flash of jealousy in those violet eyes.

***

The arrival of Drogon--black, unrelentingly ferocious, and significantly larger than his brothers-- turned Jon's stomach. Gleeful at the sight of the crack in his composure, Daenerys made a show of climbing atop the black beast's back, and took off into the grey skies. Viserion followed suit, calling after them as though pleading them to wait for him. Rhaegal stayed behind, nudging his snout into Jon's bewildered shoulders, badgering him to...to do something. Turning away, ignoring the dragon's gentle pleas, he set out in search of his men, hoping to break his fast with them. Under the impression he was by himself, Jon nearly jumped out of his skin when Varys noiselessly appeared at his side.

“Am I intruding, your Grace?”

Jon shook his head. Though he was tempted to pick up his pace, he slowed down to gauge what the Master of Whispers thought of him. Sansa had to told him she was never sure what his true intentions were.

“The dragons—sight to behold aren’t they?” Varys’ words had a wistful air to them. “Men are always in awe of them when they first see them.”

“Mm,” Jon grunted. His response made Varys smile.

“I may have been wrong about you, Lord Snow. You possess a great resemblance to Lord Eddard Stark but your northern convictions are far less staunch.”

“I’m not sure if you mean to give offense or compliment me, Lord Varys.”

“Oh, I’m sure your sister’s told you all about the intrigue surrounding Lord Stark’s execution. Your father was a man of honor, but there is little place for that in southern politics, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t care to hear ill about my father so early in the morning,” Jon sighed testily.

“Oh, don’t take offense, my Lord. I admired your father a great deal. He was the primary architect behind Robert Baratheon’s ascension to power. Without him, King Robert would never have had the backing of the people. But men like Robert let power get to their heads, and by the time Ned Stark returned to the fold, Robert was beyond saving. Your poor father tried to do right by him—for old time’s sake—but what he really should have done was orchestrate another coup.”

Jon stopped in his tracks and eyed Varys suspiciously. “Why are you telling me this?”

Clicking his tongue, Varys said, “Over the years, people have questioned whether I’m loyal to the Targaryens, the Baratheons, or the Lannisters. The truth is, my loyalty lies with the realm.”

They were almost at the castle’s entrance. Varys lowered his voice. “Dragons and a foreign army can break the wheel, but only a patient carpenter who’s learned in his craft can build a new one to replace the old.”

He drew apart from Jon as they entered the castle walls, disappearing into a dark walkway. “Difficult choices lay ahead of you, Lord Snow. I doubt you’ll be reuniting with your blushing bride any time soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks between fingers* Do I still have you guys with me? So, this chapter kind of fried my brains and I considered scrapping it and having a cliffnotes version where we fast forward half a year or the likes. BUT I kept it because I knew the show's going to write this encounter as an irrational D*ny love-fest so this is basically a huge wish-fulfillment thing for me. That, and I miss Varys being Varys, ya know?
> 
> Coming up: What's Sansa been up to?


	21. A Girl Has A Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over at Winterfell, Sansa discovers the presence that's got Ghost acting up.

“You’ve been looking pale of late.” Val had waited for the rest of Sansa’s women’s council to leave the room. “Are you not well?”

Sansa stiffened, a denial at the tip of her tongue. She strode over to the door, checked the corridor beyond, and shut it. Discarding her usual mask of hardiness, she flashed Val a brilliant smile.

Val’s eyes narrowed as she deciphered the reason behind the smile. “You’re sure?”

Sansa nodded, giddy from finally sharing the news.

“How long?”

“Nearing on three moons now.”

A mischievous glint shone in Val’s eyes. “You mean to say the babe was conceived outside the marriage bed.”

Sansa blushed. They burst into a fit of giggles. The lightness it brought was much needed. Winter’s chill had become more severe since Jon and his men left. The plans for Winterfell and Wintertown’s fortifications were coming along nicely, the glass gardens had produced a bountiful yield of winter vegetables which were stocked away, and a fresh supply of seeds and roots had arrived for sowing. All this coupled with maintaining morale and caring for Rickon weighed heavy upon Sansa.

She had not forgotten the disappointment of her girlhood—that horrid day near the Trident when she lost both Lady and her last tether to Jon. Things were different now, of course. She felt she could fight the Others with her bare hands if she had to, but she couldn’t bear the disappointment of losing Jon’s child again.

The morning sickness helped in assuring her that wouldn’t be the case this time. When her mother was pregnant with Rickon, Septa Mordane had told her the sickness was a sign of the babe’s good health. Coming into her third moon, she dared to hope this could go as she wanted.

“Have you told anyone?” Val asked once they’d caught their breath.

“No.” Sansa caressed her belly protectively. “The furs will hide any tell, but my gait may give me away in a few months. Then there are my handmaids…”

“You’ll need a man to act the father.”

Sansa sighed. Yes, she would. If the northern houses pieced together that Jon was the father, they’d break all ties with House Stark.

“I reckon I can find you a Wildling,” Val smirked. “It’ll be a hard task to find one as pretty as your Lord, but I know a few dark-haired lads to explain the babe’s features.”

The next day, Val introduced Sansa to Hrorik. He was a young, mild-mannered lad of nineteen. His talents, Sansa discovered, inclined more towards storytelling and music than it did towards more physical pursuits, and the prospect of embroiling himself in an elaborate political ruse thrilled him beyond belief.

To the shock of Winterfell’s help, Sansa ordered rooms be prepared for Hrorik in the guest quarters. He attended meals and spent evenings recounting Sansa’s favorite tales of old before an audience. During her inspections of Wintertown, Sansa would make sure Hrorik was seen at her side. The scrutiny their relationship brought Sansa unsettled her. In times of doubt, she reminded herself that she was still the Lady of Winterfell. Had it not been for her, her people would still have been scraping by under Ramsey Bolton’s tyranny.

***

Ghost was restless early one morning. He stayed at Sansa’s side as she offered her prayers at the Godswood, but remained agitated the entire time. When Sansa and Hrorik set out for a stroll through Wintertown, he bolted ahead and disappeared behind a cluster of closely clumped huts.

Rather than follow in Ghost’s heels, Sansa tracked his growls—not as threatening as she knew they could be—and the accompanying cries of common folk on his way to the town’s outskirts.

Jogging ahead of Sansa, Hrorik spotted a girl emerge from the maze of huts, running towards him.

“Oye, you!” Hrorik called to her. The girl showed no sign of slowing. He held out his arms to block her way, but she expertly cut off the air from his throat with a flick of the wrist.

She was a woman grown of small frame. Her hair was a dull brown and her face—the unmistakable somber features of a Stark.

“Arya!” Sansa cried in disbelief, hurrying after her, cursing the slippery mud under her boots.

The girl slowed but maintained a brisk pace—too fast for Sansa to catch up with her.

“Arya!” Sansa was out of breath. “Arya, is that you? Gods, please don’t play such cruel tricks on me.”

Ghost ran past her, his pristine white fur stained with mud, and overtook the girl. He bore his teeth at her, and forced her to a halt.

“Get away! Go on,” the girl panicked, trying to wave Ghost away.

The intonations in her voice…it _was_ Arya. Sansa’s vision blurred as she grabbed the girl by the shoulder and spun her around.

 _Arya_. Gone was the scrawny girl with rounded cheeks of Sansa’s memories. In her place stood a hardy young woman who had grown into her striking northern features.

“It _is_ you,” Sansa cried, kneading her little sister’s face to be absolutely certain. “Gods, Arya!” She pulled her into a tight hug.

Arya didn’t respond. Her face was expressionless when they drew apart, and her shifting glances seemed to be marking out a route for escape.

“Arya, how long have you been here?” Sansa seized her by the chin and forced her to look into her eyes. “Why didn’t you come home?”

“I was looking for someone,” said Arya evenly. “And she’s not here.”

Sansa’s chest tightened. “Arya, we’re all home at Winterfell. Who else could you be looking for? Gods, Rickon will be so excited to see you, and the castle’s felt so empty since Jon left, and oh, I’m just happy that it’s really you! You’re back, Arya! You’re home!”

Arya’s face remained blank. Unfeeling.

Disheartened, Sansa looked over her shoulder at Hrorik. He clutched at his throat, coughing, as he stumbled to his feet. He looked at the two of them, dejected.

“I reckon you owe dear Hrorik an apology,” Sansa whispered, biting back a giggle.

This seemed to light a spark in the depths of Arya’s grey eyes.  

***

At Winterfell, Arya’s return was greeted with jubilation. _The time for wolves is truly upon us,_ the help said among themselves as they prepared a feast in her honor.

Rickon refused to abandon his post by his younger sister’s side. He inundated her with questions: Where had she travelled to? Who were the Brotherhood without banners? What was Braavos like? Who had she been travelling with? Where did she get her sword? Could she use it? How many people had she killed with it?

Sansa left them to their own devices to find Arya some fresh clothes. Jon’s tunics and breeches were large for her but they’d have to suffice until she made new clothes in her size. On her return to the parlor where she left them, she heard Arya recounting how she almost bashed the Hound’s head in with a rock.

She fell silent when Sansa entered.

“Then what happened?” Rickon bounced in his seat.

“Nothing,” Arya said with a sharp look that made Rickon recoil.

Sansa wanted to ask her to continue, but didn’t push her. If she needed time, that was what she’d give her.

“These are all I have for the moment.” She handed Arya Jon’s clothes. “They’re new. Jon couldn’t wear them before he left.”

Arya’s eyes grew wide as she held the tunic up to the light. Her eyes teared up. “Thank you, Sansa.”

“Of course. Now, go on and wash. I’ve readied your old chambers for you.”

***

Arya preferred the company of Rickon and the direwolves to anyone else’s. She took charge of Rickon’s combat training, and helped him with his arithmetic and history lessons. Once he’d finish for the day, they’d play with Ghost and Shaggydog out in the snow. When Rickon tired and reluctantly went down for a nap, Arya’s amiable disposition hardened again.

She’d wander about the castle and reacquaint herself with every crack in every stone. Meals with the rest of the household in the banquet hall didn’t appeal to her. She preferred grabbing some food from the kitchens and eating it while wandering. Her path rarely crossed with Sansa’s during the day. When it did, their encounters were stilted like those between strangers.

Though Sansa had decided not to press Arya for details about her time away from Winterfell, she couldn’t help her concern and—she was ashamed to admit—her jealousy for not being confided in. Despite their different natures, they were still sisters. Sansa had hoped after everything they’d endured, Arya would have seen past Sansa’s delicate exterior. But it seemed Arya still harbored her childhood animosity towards her. At times it seemed the only part of her old self she still possessed.

Arya’s once cantankerous nature had been replaced with something eerily quiet, observant, and cunning. Amongst themselves, the commonfolk complained of her emotionless glare giving them the chills. _It’s like she’s not even living, like she’s them Others Lord Snow goes on about._

Sansa couldn’t chastise them for speaking ill of her sister. She had felt it too—Arya’s all-seeing eye tracking her whereabouts from the shadows. She’d known this feeling before—at King’s Landing. And she only knew it because she’d been living in a den full of killers.

Then one day, Arya disappeared. Nobody had seen her leave the castle or about Wintertown. Rickon locked himself in his chambers to cry. He thought she had left for good, just like Osha. Sansa didn’t believe Arya could leave without a word, but she worried nonetheless, and spent most of that day in prayer.

Arya did return eventually. In the dead of night. She faced Sansa, stone-faced and unapologetic, prepared for whatever chastisement her sister was about to dole out.

The old Sansa would have told her off for acting dishonorably and unladylike. And Gods, she wanted to wring her ears for worrying her so much. But all she managed to say was: “Are you all right?”  

Arya cocked her head back and blinked.

“Are you hurt?”

Arya shook her head.

“Good.” Sansa swallowed her reproaches with difficulty. “Rickon cried himself to sleep. You should go see him. Tell him you’re fine.”

“Sansa, I—“

“Just…” Sansa wanted to ask her why she was doing this, why she wasn’t letting her in. “We’ve come together after so long, Arya. After so much. You may have your reasons for your indifference, but Rickon and I need you, and we love you, and we want you safe.”

“I’ll tell you.” Arya gulped, ashamed of herself. “Next time. I promise.”

“Thank you.” Sansa’s hand reached out for her’s, but she quickly pulled it back. Arya didn’t want affection. At least not from her.

Arya kept her promise. From then on, she always informed Sansa before leaving the castle. She never said where she was going or why though. She simply took off for long spells, sometimes not returning until daybreak the next day. It was almost as though she were a prince in one of Old Nan’s tales—a shapeshifter who changed into his bestial state in the secrecy of the woods every full moon.

Sansa was no fool. It occurred to her that it may have been Winterfell itself that kept driving Arya away. Sansa was the Lady of the household. That was who she had always known she would be. Arya, though—Arya never wished to be a lady, and Sansa thought she was doing her a favor by not imposing a lady’s duties upon her. But perhaps she did want to take up some responsibilities. Perhaps a more active role in the household would have helped her feel like she belonged.

So Sansa entrusted Arya with Jon’s duties. She was to oversee the completion of the fortifications and the production of dragonglass weaponry. Endowed with a mind for figures, Sansa also entrusted Arya with the management of some of the household’s accounts.

While Arya’s new duties didn’t affect her guarded stance much, she did become more of a visible figure around the castle. They made her less intimidating and more approachable for the common folk. The number of her mysterious excursions fell, and Winterfell dared sigh a cautious breath of contentment.

***

Sansa’s belly swelled. She wept in the solitude of her chambers the first time the babe kicked. Jon should have been at her side, cradling and caressing her stomach, cooing for his babe not to trouble his mother. He didn’t even know, and much as she wanted to, she dared not send him a raven for fear of it getting into the wrong hands.

Her condition couldn’t be hidden from her handmaids for long. Sansa noticed their eyes dart to her growing breasts before her baths. When her stomach protruded, she saw the questions dancing on the tip of their tongues. They remained respectful and handled her well-being with great care, but that didn’t mean they held their tongue.

Their beloved Lady Stark was carrying a Wildling’s child. The curious gazes and their accompanying judgement were palpable wherever Sansa went. There was no way for a lay man to really tell though. Not yet. Not with the heavy, billowing fur cloak draped over her form all day.

If anything gave her away, it was her fatigue. She felt drained after carrying out the simplest task and felt an odd combination of anger and hurt when the tiniest detail went awry. Jobs kept piling up and she felt she was being pulled in a million different directions. All she truly wished to do was prepare the nursery for the babe, sew him a few clothes, perhaps a blanket, and sing to her belly so he knew her voice.

One thing she definitely didn’t want to do in her state was continue learning to defend herself. She had not made much headway with Val since Jon left. In truth, she could do little but point the tip of her dagger’s blade at her assailant, and wave it around while making empty threats. Val perceived her lack of progress as a personal failure, and insisted she continue despite her unwillingness.

“You’re no fool, Sansa,” Val snapped as they headed to a secluded courtyard where they were unlikely to be interrupted. “Your being with child makes you even more prone to an attack. And you know your enemies won’t hesitate to use it against you. I’ve heard stories of what wicked men do to babes south of the Wall. You want to protect your babe, don’t you?”

Sansa removed her cloak and tried to concentrate as Val ran through all the ways someone could attack her, and questioned her on how to work her way out of an assailant’s clutches. She responded with words rather than actions. Val was unrelenting though. She demanded she demonstrate. When Sansa acquiesced it was half-hearted—not for a lack of want to learn, but a lack of energy. She was out of breath and covered in sweat by the time Val’s patience reached its limit.

“Perhaps I was wrong,” Val surrendered. “Maybe you are a fool, Sansa Stark.”

Sansa stumbled over to a bench and rested her head against the cold stone wall behind it. “I am as much a fighter as you are a seamstress, Val. Jon meant well by asking you to teach me, but I’m no warrior.” She smiled at a kick to her belly, and ran her palm over it. “Perhaps this is all I’m good for.”

“Oh don’t be so harsh on yourself.” Val sat down beside her. “You’re a fine lady with a good heart. It’s a good thing you’ve got me and the rest of the spearwives looking out for you.”

Sansa smiled in gratitude and released a drawn out breath. Her lips fell as she spotted a figure watching them from a balcony above. It disappeared in a flash, just as Sansa was about to call out her name— _Arya_.

Encircling both her arms around her belly, Sansa braced herself for the fresh wave of apprehension crashing over her. The unspoken rift between Arya and herself had made it impossible to breach the subject of Jon and his parentage. She had no idea if Rickon had told Arya about it or if he’d ever mentioned their clandestine wedding to her.

She knew it wasn’t Rickon’s news to tell, but she feared the truth would drive Arya further away. Arya had always loved Jon the most out of all of them. The news could tarnish the last few fond memories she had of their family.

Still, nothing justified Sansa’s keeping it from her for so long. Nothing. Jon was her family, and she deserved to know.  Sansa just didn’t know how to go about it. She just couldn’t face the possibility of fracturing her family again.

***

Rickon had asked his supper to be brought up to his solar. Having fallen behind on state affairs again, Sansa allowed it and took her own supper as she answered missives from northern and southern houses. Her back aching and legs stiff by the time she finished, she took to pacing along the family quarter’s corridors, and paid Rickon a visit in his bedchamber once her joints had loosened up a little.

Her little brother was already in bed. He tugged his furs over his head on hearing her enter.

“Rickon? Asleep already?”

“I’m tired,” he mumbled into his pillow. “I’ve got a good many sums to practice tomorrow. Goodnight, Sansa.”

Sansa thought she heard a slight tremor in his voice. “You didn’t go down to the banquet hall tonight. Are you not feeling well, love?”

“I’m fine! Please…just go away.”

She heard it for certain this time—a stifled sob.

Pulling the bed furs off of him, Sansa tried to pry his face out of his pillow. “Rickon, what’s gotten into you?”

“No!”

She pulled him by the hair and held his face to the dim candlelight. A gasp of horror issued from Sansa’s lips as she made out a large purplish bruise on the left side of his face.

“Rickon, who did this to you?”

“No one.”

“Rickon, if you don’t tell me who did this, I’ll have each and every one of your playmates punished and banished from the grounds.”

“No, please don’t! It wasn’t any of them. They’d never…”

“Then who?”

“She was just upset, that’s all. She didn’t mean it. She couldn’t have. Please don’t be angry with her.”

A chill ripped through her spine. “Arya?”

Pawing at her cloak, Rickon buried his face in it and wept. “She was angry because I told her I practiced signing my name for your wedding. She said I was a liar—that you can’t marry Jon because sisters can’t marry brothers. When I told her about what Bran showed me she called me a liar again and…and…”

“Ssh ssh…” Sansa guided Rickon back under the furs, tucked him in and wrapped an arm over him. “This is all my fault. I’m so so sorry sweet little one.”

She cursed herself as Rickon’s sobs turned to soft snores. How could she have let it get this far? She who had prided herself in being the Lady and protector of Winterfell. How could she call herself those things when she didn’t even have the courage to face her sister. And now her boy brother payed the price for her shortcomings.

Sansa held on to Rickon for a while longer. Whether it was to give him comfort or to find her own courage, she could not say. She kissed him goodnight and searched the sleeping castle for Arya. Sansa was too guilty and too angry to wait till morning.  

Arya wasn’t in her bedchamber. Nor was she in the kitchens, stables, or kennels. If she had taken off again, Sansa would have followed her out beyond Winterfell’s walls. All rational thought had escaped her. She needed to clear the air and give Rickon justice. She needed to return peace to her family.

The door to one of the older, smaller audience chambers in the great keep was propped open. All furniture within had been pushed to the side. A single candle burned low at the far end of the spacious room. Sansa heard a dry bristling noise, rhythmic, repetitive. She spotted Arya’s silhouette, prostrate on the floor, her hands working away—scrubbing. She didn’t react to Sansa’s entrance.

Sansa was firm in her accusation. “You raised your hand on a defenseless child.”

“I’m raising him to be a man worthy of his name.” Arya sat up on her heels. “I’m teaching him to defend himself, and I’ll teach him the value of the truth—if I can rid his mind of the southron poison you’ve filled it with.”

Sansa seethed in anger. “Rickon is a true born son of our Lord Father. His sons will go on to watch over the north. I’d never compromise his upbringing.”

Arya rose to her feet and disappeared into the shadows. “And I suppose it’s your design to force his hand into allying with the Lannisters. With your precious Cersei.”

Her sister’s words stunned Sansa into silence. Cersei? The woman who tortured her for three long years? “If you think I’d ever let so much as Cersei’s shadow near Rickon, you’re far madder than what they say about you.”

“I may be mad,” Arya’s voice echoed through the chamber, “but you’re a liar. And I won’t let House Stark’s fate rest on the shoulders of a scheming liar.”

“Then let me tell you everything. If you’ll only listen!”

A wooden staff flew out from the darkness and landed at her feet. A dark rag was tied to its tip.

“Pick it up,” Arya ordered. “Bind your eyes with it.”

Confused, Sansa undid the rag from the staff and fastened it over her eyes. “Now will you hear me?”

She was answered with a sharp smack to the shoulder. Dropping the staff, her hands reflexively shielded her belly.

“Pick it up.”

“Arya—“

“I said pick it up!”

Sansa did as she was told, this time with a firmer grip. She held the staff horizontally, turning her neck left and right, listening in anticipation. She couldn’t hear a thing. It was like Arya had left the room. When a long enough spell of silence had passed, she dared to speak. “Before we left Winterfell, before Jon left for the Night’s Watch, Mother and Father told us he was a Targaryen.”

Another blow landed on her shoulder. She bit back a scream, tried to listen for the faintest ripple of a movement.

“Jon is the son of Aunt Lyanna and Rhaegar Targaryen.” Another blow, this time to the knee. She still managed to stand. “Father couldn’t tell anyone because he was afraid King Robert would kill him.”

She heard the sweep of Arya’s staff in the air and tried to dodge it with a turn. It struck her on the waist, dangerously close to her stomach. “Arya, please! You’ll hurt the babe!”

“The Wildling, Hrorik’s babe.”

“No, Arya. It’s Jon’s—my husband’s.”

“Liar!”

Arya’s voice gave her away. Sansa blocked her strike with her staff and shoved her off.

“No, it’s the truth. Jon is my husband. We were in love when King Robert came to Winterfell. We wished to be married then, but Father couldn’t risk it, so he separated us. I went south and Jon went north.”

“You were mad for Joffrey.”

“I had to act it, Arya. Father’s life, our lives were at stake.”

Blow after blow came raining down upon Sansa. She deflected a few, felt the sting of others.

“You were Cersei’s little stooge,” Arya said, her voice trembling with emotion, “following her everywhere, forgetting the rest of us. And now you’re going to soil Jon’s good name by being just like her. Because you know the northern houses will turn against him when you tell him that he—and you—“

Sansa’s lower stomach seized, drawing tears from her eyes. She flung her staff aside, yanked off the blindfold, and stumbled to the nearest pillar for support. Her breaths were labored. The pain showed no sign of ebbing.

“Sansa?” Arya appeared at her side. “Sansa, what’s wrong?”

Waiting till her breaths evened, Sansa wiped the tears from her face. The pain was receding and she felt no wetness in her smallclothes. “Do you remember the day she sentenced Lady to death in Nymeria’s stead?”

She looked up at her little sisters face. It was fraught with worry.

“Do you remember what happened after?”

Sansa saw the memory flash across Arya’s eyes. She saw her reliving the terror of seeing her calm and composed sister in hysterics.

“I lost Jon’s babe that night. Septa Mordane tried convincing me my moon’s blood was late because of the stresses of journeying, but I knew. If I distanced myself from you in the days that followed, it was because I was grieving. If I did Cersei’s bidding, I did it because I’d lost all sight of who I was.”

Arya bowed her head. A lone tear spilled down her cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“The same reason Mother and Father didn’t tell Robb, Bran, or Rickon. They couldn’t risk the truth of Jon’s identity reaching Robert Baratheon’s ears.”

“And now you can’t risk the truth being known by the Dragon Queen.”

Sansa nodded. “Which is why Jon Snow married Alayne Stone, and Sansa Stark will birth a bastard fathered by a Wildling named, Hrorik.”

Arya held out a helping hand to Sansa. “It’s all so complicated.”

She guided Sansa out of the audience chamber, towards her bedchambers. Sansa’s body ached and her balance faltered from exertion.

“Jon’s love for you will never change,” Sansa said to her pensive sister, “You know that, don’t you?”

Arya nodded. “I just always supposed he love me best, that’s all. We’d always have a good laugh at your expense.”

Sansa chuckled. “Well you can still do that. I reckon he finds my homely disposition quite tiring at times.”

Arya helped Sansa change for bed and guided her under the bed furs. It didn’t take long for Sansa to slip into a deep, dreamless sleep. She woke in the late hours of morning, and found Arya lying next to her, consumed by thought.

Sansa made to move but groaned in pain.

“Are you all right?” Arya asked. “I only aimed at places that wouldn’t hurt you too much.”

“If it was the truth you were after, you should have just asked.” Sansa winced, then scowled. “My face would’ve given away if I was lying or not.”

“I’m sorry.” Arya rolled to her side and propped her head up on her hand. “It wasn’t just to get you to tell the truth, you know. That Val’s a bloody rubbish dancing master. She’s trying to make you a fighter when she should really be teaching you to head your surroundings. You need to know how to survive before you can fight.”

“I really wish the lot of you would let me be. I’m quite capable of surviving, thank you very much.”

Arya’s elbow let out and her head dropped to the pillow. She snuggled closer to Sansa. “Sansa? Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“When you and Jon are apart, do you feel a pull to him? Like no matter what happens in this world, you have to be with him?”

“I do,” Sansa said wistfully. “Jon will be my home so long as I live. I suppose that’s the cruelest part of it all.”

“And if there was something you could do to feel close to him, would you?”

Sansa searched Arya’s face. Her eyes were distant, thinking of something far away—of someone.

“Who are you thinking of, Arya?”

“Just someone,” Arya sighed, “A lowborn blacksmith. A friend, really.”

“And was he terribly handsome?” Sansa teased.

Arya scoffed. “No! He was just…he was just Gendry.”

“And where is this Gendry?”

Arya’s eyes darkened. A hint of sadness passed over them. “A red priestess took him. Something about King’s blood.” Her voice quivered. “She killed him.”

Sansa grew grave. “A red priestess?”

“They say she brought Jon back from the dead.”

“Melisandre.”

Arya nodded. “She was on my list. She and Cersei and Walder Frey and the Mountain. I thought I’d get her if I came here, but she was already gone.”

“Is that why you didn’t come to the castle right away? Because you were thinking of going after her?”

Again, Arya nodded. “I can’t rest easy until I’ve cut them all from my list. Not until I’ve avenged Father’s death, and Mother’s and Robb’s and Gendry’s.”

“Arya, please don’t tell me you’re actually considering leaving. Not before Jon gets back.”

“We don’t know when that’s going to be! How many more will suffer at the hands of those monsters by then?”

“Arya, listen to me.” Sansa cupped her cheek. “The world will see no end to the tyranny of monsters, but we’ve only got the one family. Winter is here and the Long Night is almost upon us. Only the wolf pack that stays together survives.”

Lowering her gaze, Arya tried to shake free of Sansa’s touch.

“At least until the babe comes then. Arya, please. I’m frightened. Aunt Lyanna died giving birth to Jon. If something were to happen to me, I need—I need someone to care after Rickon and the babe.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I have to because there is every possibility…I must see to these things and I _will_ see House Stark survive.”

They lay there staring at each other. The resolve in Arya’s eyes crumbled. She heaved a dry sob and conceded. “Until the babe comes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Hope you enjoyed that reunion :) As always thank you for leaving me some love.


	22. The Long Road Apart (Part 1)

Jon came to on solid ground, on all fours. Before him, Rickon giggled as he tried to outrun Shaggydog. A firm hand scratched behind his ears. He leaned into its owner—Arya. She was back at Winterfell. Taller. Older. More mature. She still had Needle and was more or less the same girl he had given that sword to. In that moment, he was glad to be with her even though he _really_ wasn’t with her.

He smelled a whiff of lavender. Sansa joined them looking flushed. Her damp hairs stuck to her forehead and she seemed tired despite it only being afternoon. But she looked radiant. Where winter’s toll had made everyone look a touch haggard, her cheeks had rounded ever so slightly and her whole being exuded a warm glow.

“Are you all right?” Arya inquired. “You look like you’ve just run to the Wall and back.”

Jon hurried over to Sansa and rubbed up against her cloak.

“It’s such a nuisance,” Sansa grumbled. “The whole world’s freezing over, and I’m sweating like a pig in the summer sun.”

Arya threw her head back and laughed. “So ladylike, Sansa.”

Sansa glared at her.

“Why don’t you lie down for a time. I’ll tell everyone to come to me if they need anything.”

Smiling, Sansa kissed Arya’s cheek. “Thank you, Arya. I’m afraid my feet have swollen to the size of melons.”

Arya’s laughter resumed. “You know, I quite like you like this.”

Sansa clicked her tongue. “And you know it’s not nice to laugh at another’s misery.”

Jon stayed close and followed Sansa to her bedchambers. She threw off her cloak and undid the laces on her dress. Drawing out an exhale, she looked at him, eyes drunk with fatigue.

“Will you join me in my daytime slumber, boy?”

Her dress fell to the floor. Through her shift, his eyes locked onto her stomach. It was big and rounded. She was…

He remained transfixed as Sansa dabbed her skin with a wet cloth. Groaning in relief as she hoisted her swollen legs up onto the bed, she caressed her stomach.

“Mummy needs some rest now,” she cooed. “Will you be good for her?” She settled into her pillows and giggled in mild anguish. “That means no kicking, my sweet.” 

Jon padded to her side and sniffed at the swell of her belly. Her fingers ran through his fur, gentler and gentler as she drifted off to sleep. He longed to climb atop the bed and lay next to her.

But before he knew it he was jolting awake on his back in a swaying cabin. It was difficult to breath. He felt like he’d drowned. Gasping upright, he wiped at his damp eyes before bursting into relentless tears. He should have been home with his family, not on a ship to Dorne to fight a war he never saw ending. He could have had everything he ever wanted, if only just for a few days, had he just remained at Winterfell.

Reeling in his sobs, he slid his boots on and headed up to the deck for some fresh air. He watched the trio of dragons flying overhead, admired how their wings slashed through the air and propelled them forward. His balance faltered every now and then. The sickness from constant motion had not left him, and his warging to Winterfell had stolen some of his presence of mind.

A familiar and comforting presence appeared at his side and grasped his shoulder. “I never thought the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and King of the North would be bested by the sea,” Ser Davos chuckled.

“I’d have fared better had I been born a smuggler.” Though he wanted to, Jon didn’t have it in him to smile.

“Something troubles you.”

It was a common enough observation on his part. Jon had a great many things troubling him. During his moon’s turn at Dragonstone, he had surveyed the land and convinced Daenerys to leave some of her men—mostly Dothraki—behind to mine dragonglass. He asked Daenerys for a ship from her fleet to send to Eastwatch with the mined rock. She had indulged him on that front but refused to let him stay behind to oversee the task. For all he knew, that dragonglass would remain unmined in the pits of Dragonstone.

Jamie Lannister had taken Highgarden, leaving Olenna Tyrell without power, Sansa without the gold to pay the Skagosi for their supply of dragonglass, and the realm at large without food for the winter. As it stood, Lannister forces were dwindling in numbers. The odds were in Daenerys’ favor. It was the time it would take—the time Jon had to be away from Winterfell—that sprung tears from his eyes.

They were to sail to Storm’s End and then ride west to Highgarden to retake it. There was talk of riding north and taking Casterly Rock to draw Cersei Lannister’s remaining forces out of King’s Landing. How many moons—no years—would these maneuvers take? Would any of it even matter if the Others breached the wall?

Ser Davos looked at Jon empathetically, waiting for an answer.

“I am to be a father.” Jon’s voice cracked.

Eyes widening, Ser Davos asked: “You—you’re sure?”

Jon nodded. He had told him how he warged into Ghost sometimes, and how he had learned Arya had returned to Winterfell. “I felt Ghost’s protectiveness for weeks, but I assumed it was just because I was away.” Ghosting his palms over his stomach, he said: “I saw her. She’s grown large with my—“

He couldn’t bring himself to say it. _His child_.

Looking out into the water pensively, Ser Davos nodded. “She’ll be around four moons now. I’m no maester, but it’s my understanding the danger of losing a child passes after the third moon.”

“And what of the danger to Sansa? My own mother died giving birth to me. What if—“

“It is known to happen.” Ser Davos was grave but kind. “The most we can do is pray for her well-being along with the child’s.”

Jon’s gaze followed Rhaegal doing somersaults in the air. The pull he felt to the creature had not ceased in the time he’d known it. It was like they shared a language only they understood. He wondered if others shared similar bonds with the creatures. He had wanted to broach the subject many a time with Daenerys but she tended to get haughtier than usual when talk of her dragons arose. Understandable. His own child had not even been born yet, but he already felt maddeningly possessive of him.

But he had seen Daenerys ride Drogon. If he could do the same with Rhaegal, perhaps…

“Prayers fall on deaf ears, Ser Davos. I need to see Sansa. She can’t be alone.”

Ser Davos grew stern. “She’s not alone. Lord Rickon and your lady sister will be at her side. And I bloody-well hope I don’t need to tell you what your abrupt departure will imply to the Dragon Queen and your northern subjects.”

Jon tried to keep the fire of his resolve alive. Eventually he sighed. “I can’t live without her.”

“A lover’s foolishness! You’ll be putting her life in danger if you rush to her side. Think what’d happen if Daenerys followed you to Winterfell. What would you say when she asks to see Alayne?”

Ser Davos was right, of course. His reproaches didn’t fully expunge Jon’s mind of the idea though.

***

Sansa watched Joffrey and Margaery’s wedding banquet unfold with a bundle strapped to her bosom, a small hand clutching at the fabric of her dress, and soft breaths ghosting over her neck.

The hall was in chaos. Cersei cradled Joffrey at the head of the table as his face turned purple and froth spouted from his mouth.

“My lady,” Sansa heard a man’s voice behind her. Ser Dontos. “We must hurry.”

The bundle at her bosom gave a slight squeak. She cradled it to her as she followed Ser Dontos out of the castle, into the muddy, littered streets of King’s Landing, past the brothels to the shore where a rowboat awaited them. The city bells rang, alerting everyone of Joffrey’s death. There was no time to tarry. She leapt into the boat. Ser Dontos gave it a shove before climbing on himself.

Undoing the strap that held the bundle to her, she cooed at the babe swaddled within. He was a dark haired babe with somber features—just like his father. His hold on her collar slackened. He didn’t stir. Sansa touched his cheek. He was cold as ice. He wasn’t breathing.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Looking up at Ser Dontos, she cried, “Turn the boat back!”

“My lady, you must be quiet. The water will carry your voice straight to the Kingsguard.”

“Turn it back!” She rubbed the babe’s chest, put an ear to his nose to see if he breathed.

They were farther away from shore. Too far away. Looking every which way for help, she screamed at the top of her lungs. “JON!”

_“Sansa!”_

Sansa jerked awake in the safety of her bedchamber at Winterfell. “Jon?”

“Sansa, it’s all right. It was just a nightmare.” Arya pulled her into an embrace and stroked her hair till the tremors subsided.

Sansa, in turn, stroked her rounded belly. She shifted to get comfortable and fell silent. “The babe’s not moving.”

Arya’s hand joined her’s on her belly. “What?”

“He always kicks when he hears my voice. He’s not…”

Climbing out of bed, Arya rummaged through a basket of remedies and unfinished knitting, and returned with an ear trumpet. Pulling Sansa’s shift over her stomach, she placed the larger end to her flesh and the smaller end to her ear as she had seen the spearwife do. Sansa held her breath…Waiting…Dreading.

“I hear a heartbeat,” Arya exhaled in relief.

“You’re sure? Is it strong?”

Arya nodded. “He’s just sleeping like a good lad.” She wiped the tears and sweat from her sister’s face. “Everything’s all right. Go back to sleep. You’re safe.”

Lying back, Sansa contemplated in silence. There were no assurances of safety during childbirth. She had heard too many stories of mothers or children, or both mothers and children perishing. None of it was in her hands. The most she could do was remain brave and strong through to the end.

Late next morning, Winterfell saw the arrival of Maester Ruhskin. He was an astute, somewhat reserved man, about the same age their father would have been had he been alive. He had set out as soon as the Citadel had received Jon’s raven following Rickon’s return, but the weather had slowed his progress. It had also taken a toll on his person.

Sansa got him settled in his rooms and introduced him to the household. Rickon informed him of what he had learnt since returning to Winterfell. Arya and Sansa provided him with an overview of their designs for Winterfell during the winter and invited his advice going forward. Maester Ruhskin listened intently and made a few remarks here and there, but his demeanor made it clear he was there to do their—namely Sansa’s—bidding.

He waited till he was alone with Sansa to make his own inquiries. “My lady, may I ask how far along you are?”

Sansa cast her eyes down, embarrassed. “I suppose there’s no hiding it forever.”

“The untrained eye would not catch it, perhaps. But you are with child, yes?”

“Yes, about five moons.”

“Very well.”

Sansa tried to read his face. Did he judge her? “You…umm…I’d be grateful if you’d assist me when my time comes. Truth be told, I feel far more at ease than I’ve done since you’ve arrived.”

“My lady, I swore an oath to serve the pursuit of knowledge and to serve the living. Whether your child is born in or out of wedlock does not concern me. It is your health that I must look after.”

Breathing a sigh of relief, Sansa smiled. “Thank you, Maester.” She led him to the Great Hall for supper. “How are Maester Tarly and his wards? Gilly and Sam, I believe they’re called.”

“What’s that?”

“Maester Tarly of the Night’s Watch. He’s the one Jon sent the raven to, isn’t it?”

“Tarly…yes, yes. Of Horn Hill. Valiant lad. Reticent. A little thickheaded, but his heart’s in the right place.”

Sansa furrowed her brows. Jon had always regarded Samwell as one of the smartest men he’d known. Perhaps, he just thought highly of him because he was a dear friend.

***

The fleet to Storm’s End moored at the island of Tarth to restock its food supplies. Jon and Daenerys paid Lord Selwyn Tarth a visit at Evenfall Hall to request men for their cause. Jon didn’t have high hopes. Ser Davos had told him the Lord of Tarth had refused to join Stannis Baratheon in his march for King’s Landing. Daenerys’ presence didn’t do much to enamor him to them either.

Yet, Jon came upon some luck when a familiar face barged in on their audience like a welcome summer breeze. Lady Brienne had returned home after her failed attempt at engaging the Blackfish. Her profuse apologies returned the color to Jon’s seasick face.

“You need not apologize, good Lady,” Jon assured. “I daresay we all need to return home sometimes. Sansa is well at Winterfell, as is Rickon and Arya.”

She smiled broadly.

“You may rest easy knowing you’ve fulfilled your oath to Lady Catelyn.”

The loyal knight proceeded to list Jon’s many accomplishments as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to her father, and spoke of his subsequent recapture of Winterfell. She spoke passionately of how the Night’s Watch was criminally undermanned and implored her father to send more men.

“The Night’s Watch is a noble destiny for any man,” she insisted. “Far greater than any petty squabble down south. If you won’t give Lord Snow men to fight alongside him here, at least send men north to protect our realm.”

Lord Tarth said he’d think about it. In private, Brienne assured Jon he’d send as many men he could afford to spare. To Daenerys’ chagrin, she pledged her sword to Jon, and joined them aboard the fleet to Storm’s End.

They also picked up another eager swordsman at Tarth—a blacksmith by the name of Gendry Waters. Ser Davos burst into an incredulous fit laughter when the lad approached them. Apparently he’d believed the boy to have drowned. Ensuring nobody from Daenerys’ camp was within earshot, he let Jon know his true identity—Robert Baratheon’s bastard. Gendry himself didn’t know of course, and Jon beseeched it stayed that way.

The fleet arrived at Storm’s End within a fortnight and from there they rode west to Highgarden. Jon’s desire to request Daenerys‘ permission to ride Rhaegal grew with each passing day, but he refrained for fear of setting off her temper.

As it stood the Targaryen heir’s patience and nerves were already being tested. The cold weather, though not nearly as cold as Jon was used to, didn’t agree with many of her men. They had begun falling ill. She faced daily complaints from southron soldiers about the havoc the Dothraki wreaked in villages they passed, and lost a large chunk of her time attending to the commonfolk, trying to assure them she meant them no harm. When they cowered in her presence she tried to win them over with gold. This seemed to appease them, but Jon knew it wasn’t a permanent solution.

It didn’t take long for news of their march to reach the four corners of the realm. They were halfway to Highgarden when Cersei Lannister’s forces ambushed them. The Dothraki arrogantly charged their horses at the encroaching army without waiting for Daenerys’ command. Their foreignness caught the Lannisters’ front lines off guard, but it soon became apparent the short and curved arakhs Dothraki wielded did little damage to the heavily armored enemy. They were accustomed to close combat when Westorosi weaponry allowed greater range.

One by one, the Dothraki fell. The Unsullied hurried to their assistance on foot. They fared better with their spears, and their speed and agility.

Jon refrained from riding into the thick of the fighting as long as he could bear. This was not his battle. He was not Daenerys’ sword. But he couldn’t just wait on the sidelines.

“There needn’t be so much bloodshed,” he said to Daenerys.

The Dragon Queen was tense with fear. She had given her command and she was too proud to retract it.

“Your Grace!” Jon demanded her attention. “You have it in your power to make these men drop their swords. They need only see you atop Drogon.”

Her responding nod was curt and cold.

Exasperated, Jon signaled Ser Davos, Tormund, Brienne, and Gendry to follow him, and spurred his steed forward.  He rebuffed every attack and jabbed and slashed his way through Lannister men.

A thunderous roar shook the ground and a great shadow shrouded them as jade scales shimmered in the sunlight above. Rhaegal swooped down to the ground, formed a protective enclosure around Jon with his reptilian body, and bore his teeth at the enemy.

The urge to climb atop the beast took hold of Jon again. He took a step towards him but stopped short of laying a hand on him.

As if to impress him, Rhaegal craned his long neck at a cluster of men—Lannister, Dothraki, Unsullied—and set them on fire.

“Rhaegal, no!”

The beast flailed in anguish, flinging soldiers into the air, breaking their spines in frustration. Jon himself dodged the blow of his trunk-like tail a few times.

The battlefield was silenced again, this time because of Daenerys’ arrival atop Drogon. She ordered Drogon to breathe a ring of fire and threatened to burn anyone who dared raise his sword against her forces again.

“Your men are outnumbered and your Queen’s days on the Iron Throne are numbered,” she bellowed from her high seat. “Run back to her and tell her Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Mother of Dragons has returned to claim her birthright. Run back to her and tell her I will have what is mine with blood and fire. If you value the lives of your children and your women, you’ll strip the traitor of her title and punish her for the murderer she is.”

Drogon issued an ear-splitting shriek. A few Lannister men dropped to their knees and gave themselves up. Many pleaded for death. The rest fled back to King’s Landing in wet breeches.

Later that night, as Jon sponged himself of blood and dirt in his tent, and tended to his wounds, he was paid a visit by Daenerys. Missandei followed her but didn’t enter.

“Tyrion tells me quite a few of his sister’s men have pledged for me. For us.”

Jon’s reply was curt. “My congratulations, your Grace.”

His annoyance didn’t escape her. Thankfully, she was more apologetic than she was insulted. “I know we lost a great many men today, but a queen cannot ride in and save the hides of her men at the slightest inconvenience. It is a soldier’s duty to fight, to lay their lives down for the one they serve.”

 _And a queen’s duty is to protect her people,_ Jon thought. He did nothing but nod, feigning understanding.

Daenerys smiled, satisfied with herself. Dropping her regal haughtiness, she spoke with tenderness. It was like years had been stripped off her. “Rhaegal has taken a liking to you.”

Jon stared past her, his expression blank.

“I sensed it the day you arrived at Dragonstone. You hear him, don’t you? He speaks to you.”

“I’ve been known to be good with beasts,” Jon said gruffly.

Daenerys reached for his hand. His first instinct was to snatch it away but the vision of Sansa speaking to him in their marriage bed danced before his eyes. _You must at least entertain her pursuit._ Slack though it was, he let her take his hand.

“You’re a worthy man, Jon Snow. I wouldn’t have anyone else forge this bond with my child.”

She raised a hand to his cheek. Reluctantly, he met her violet gaze.

“Thank you, your Grace.”

Her fingers stroked his beard and her lips parted expectantly.

“I’m tired.” His words were firm and final.

Daenerys drew away with a wounded smile. “Goodnight, Jon Snow.”

***

Taking Jon and Tyrion’s advice, Daenerys ordered her men to wait in formation a few miles away from the walls of Highgarden—far enough to be out of their archers’ reach. Brienne and Tyrion raised a white flag and rode out to the gates to speak with Jaime Lannister. A few short hours later, Lannister archers lowered their bows and the gates flew open to welcome Lady Tyrell and her men home.

The years had taken a heavy toll on Jaime Lannister. Gone were the flowing golden locks and condescending nature Jon remembered. In its place was a man who seemed to have lost everything, and only lived because he was cursed with air in his lungs.

He was most gracious in welcoming Olenna Tyrell back to Highgarden. Her grandson Willas, he informed her, was his hostage by Cersei’s orders, but that was a formality he was willing to overlook.

Upon laying eyes on Jon, he said: “Why if it isn’t Ned Stark’s bastard. Word has it you know how to use that babe’s sword of yours after all.”

Brienne, Ser Davos, and Daenerys looked from Jon to the sizeable Longclaw slung at his hip, confused.

“You know,” Jaime smirked, “I’d give anything to see Catelyn Stark alive now. To think…after the great lengths she went to get her daughters out of Cersei’s clutches, in the end it was her husband’s bastard—the boy she despised so ardently—who returned her eldest daughter to Winterfell.”

Daenerys had been kept waiting long enough. Missandei stepped forward to address him. “Kingslayer.”

Jaime winced. He sighed as the handmaid listed the myriad of Daenerys’ titles, but remained polite, bowing his head to her out of respect.

“I should have your head for your crimes, Kingslayer,” Daenerys said evenly, her eyes ablaze with hate. “And someday you will pay the price. I’m sure of it. But you’re no use to me dead.”

“I assure you, I take no pleasure in being alive.”

Jon noticed Brienne frown, almost in reproach. It was an odd reaction to have in response to a coldblooded Kingslayer.

“You will write to your sister at King’s Landing and tell her to parley with us beyond the city’s walls. I do not wish for there to be more bloodshed, but know that if she refuses, that is what will happen.”

Jaime quirked a brow at Daenerys. “You’re afraid she’s booby-trapped the city with Wildfire.”

“I am in possession of three grown dragons, Kingslayer. Wildfire doesn’t frighten me.”

“Oh, but it should.” Jaime chuckled. “My lady, I am more than willing to return Highgarden to Lady Tyrell because I have it in my power to do so. I don’t, however, have any sway over Cersei. Not anymore. Power is intoxicating, and she’s too deep in her cups.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Jaime shrugged. “I only tell you the truth. What you wish to do with it is up to you.”

***

Late that night, Jon was summoned to meet with Daenerys. His guard went up on learning he was to see her in her bedchambers.

She was in the bath, mercifully veiled by a screen.

Jon announced himself with a curt cough. “You wished to see me, your Grace.”

“Yes.” Water splashed behind the sheer veil. ”Would you care for some wine?”

“No, thank you. Am I to assume I was summoned on an urgent matter?”

“Yes, Jon. I wished to speak of Cersei Lannister.”

“What of her?”

“The Kingslayer was right. I don’t wish to lead my men into a trap. There must be a way to draw her out.”

Jon shook his head. “Sansa told me Cersei held nothing more dear than her children and her twin brother. If holding Ser Jaime hostage doesn’t draw her out, then we’ll have to find other means. King’s Landing gets most of its food from Highgarden. If we are to cut off that supply, Cersei’s people will abandon her.”

“So I must wait.”

Jon sighed. _They_ must wait. He wondered if this was a good time as any to ask her about riding Rhaegal north.

“You need not wait idly. Use this time to meet with the southron lords…Make sure they don’t come to Cersei’s aid when she’s desperate.”

“Hmm.” She lay back.

Jon took the long silence as a sign their conversation had ended. He pivoted to leave.

“Why don’t you celebrate your victories with whores like other men, Jon?” Daenerys’ words were accompanied by water trickling into water.

“I’m a married man, your Grace.”

“…To a bastard girl with no title. She must be a true beauty if she’s got you—a warrior king returned from the dead—so besotted by her.”

Soft footsteps squelched towards him.

Jon clenched his fists. “Aye, she’s beautiful and kind and nurturing.”

“And she’s a world away.” She wheeled him around, forcing him to look at her, standing before him naked as her name day. “And it’ll never be the same as being with a queen.”

Jon’s clenched jaw and glower did nothing to deter her. She leaned forward, pressed her teats against his chest.

“I’ve never denied myself the sweet fruit borne of victory.” Her hot breath ghosted over his face. “I denied myself the day of the ambush but I can’t anymore.”

Clamping her away from him by the shoulders, Jon bore his gray eyes into her violet ones. “No.”

It took Daenerys a long moment to truly hear him, summoning an ungracious sneer. “I am a queen. I needn’t adhere to the paltry customs of common folk.”

“But I must,” Jon said reproachfully. “I can’t dishonor my wife so. And if you are to be queen, the last thing you need is for people to gossip about who you take to your bed.”

Nostrils flaring, Daenerys shook herself free of his grasp. “Leave!”

“Your Grace.”  Jon tilted his head in a curt bow and gladly obliged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! I was so excited when I set out to write this chapter because I was like "yes! what a great place to end a chapter that will be!" but the darned thing just kept getting longer and longer. Oops! Anyways, hope you enjoyed and Part 2's coming soon!


	23. The Long Road Apart (Part 2)

There came a point when the weather grew so severe, Sansa could not tell whether the new day was colder than the last. She was luckier than most though. Her condition warmed her body, at times uncomfortably so. It made it somewhat easier to shoulder the woes of her people and support them as they pooled their resources and fortified their homes against the winter winds.

At times she wished the world at large would disappear so she could finish the quilt she was making for the babe and ready the nursery. She wished she could lay her head on her mother’s bosom and speak of her concerns about motherhood. Despite everything she’d lived through, she felt naïve and ill-equipped to tend to a living and breathing babe.

And Jon…how she missed him! He was a permanent fixture in her thoughts even though it hurt to think of his absence. She didn’t want to think of all the ways he would have fawned over her and the babe had he been present at Winterfell, but she did.  And it always made her feel awful.

Sansa lay awake in bed after having yet another nightmare. They were persistent—her dreams. Sansa did not cry out in her sleep anymore. She just pinched herself awake and hoped to catch a few more winks of sleep before the day began. With Arya softly snoring beside her, she usually passed the hours in silent, if a little anxious, contemplation. But something this morning was different. She had the distinct urge to go away somewhere though she did not know exactly where.

Climbing out of bed gently so as not to wake Arya, she bundled up and slipped on her boots. Ghost sprang to his feet in attention.

“Come on, boy. You can make sure I don’t slip.”

Grabbing on to Ghost’s fur for support, Sansa waddled to the Godswood and offered her prayers. She sat down on an aerial root and sifted through her mind for an explanation to her mind’s disquiet. Her mental faculties, however, were gradually overpowered by a nagging pain in her back. She decided it was best to carry on with her day as always. _Work will get my mind’s wheels turning._

She rose to her feet only to hunch over as a sharp pain seized her belly. Without missing beat, Ghost howled at the top of his lungs for help. But his howls grew faint as she drifted off—not into unconsciousness but someplace far from Winterfell.

It was warmer. She smelled salt in the air and heard leaves rustling in the gentle breeze outside. Her body was sore, but not from carrying the added weight of a babe for several moons. It was sore from riding horseback.

Splayed out before her was a map of Westoros marked out with Targaryen, Tyrell, Martell, and Lannister markers. Flanking the map was a small, but luminous woman with silver hair and violet eyes. Sitting beside her—Tyrion Lannister and Varys.

Sansa fidgeted in hesitation.  The Targaryen Queen seemed amiable to their plan but something about her disposition put Sansa on guard. She looked to Ser Davos sitting beside her, and sought his counsel with a silent look. Carefully considering the situation at hand, Ser Davos gave her a nod to go ahead.

_Jon?_ she thought to herself. _Jon can you feel me with you?_

She grew rigid. Far off in the distance, Ghost continued howling. Her companions looked at her, waiting for her to say something. She— _or was it Jon?_ —excused herself from the tent and strode out.

Before her mind could articulate anything else, Ghost’s resounding howl yanked her back. She lay flat on her back on the godswood’s floor, her belly in excruciating pain. Her small clothes and stockings were drenched.

“Sansa!” Arya cried, sprinting to her from the castle. “Sansa, what’s wrong?”

Sansa managed to rise to her feet by the time Arya arrived at her side. The exertion left her out of breath. An anguished scream stayed trapped in her throat. _I am a lady. I must be strong. It mustn’t alarm. I mustn’t scream._

“The babe’s coming. You need to get the maester…and Val.” Sansa’s words were no louder than a whisper. “The babe’s coming.”

Arya tossed her sister’s arm over her shoulder and guided her back to the castle. As they hurried through the knee-deep snow, Sansa wondered if this was it. _I may only have a few hours left to live._ Good thing she was a sensible woman and discarded the thought as soon as it entered her mind.

***

Highgarden’s recapture was followed by a long and arduous courtship of the southron lords. The proposition presented to them was simple enough—the realm suffered under Cersei Lannister’s tyranny. Daenerys Targaryen wished to the rid the realm of her and hoped to do so without unnecessary bloodshed. She was touted as the savior Westoros so desperately needed and she was the only one who could end the never-ending wars across the realm.

Jon was riddled with fear during their parleys with the south's nobility. Daenerys’ habit of speaking down to their hosts rather than addressing them with humility and respect stirred more ire among the elder nobles than it nurtured fondness. She did not take japes made at her womanhood’s, or heritage’s expense in her stride. Insults were answered with threats of setting entire strongholds on fire. Brandishing power before a realm bogged down by years of war, death, and hunger bought her allegiances borne of fear, but Jon saw the resentment in the lords’ eyes, plain as day.

Standing beside Daenerys, coming to her rescue when negotiations threatened to turn sour, took Jon back several years—to when he masqueraded as a turncloak among the Wildlings. He was in the rattle-snake’s pit, feeling his way through the dark, jumping at the slightest sound, afraid of the fatal bite. Another mutiny. That was what he faced if Daenerys went too far. And the worst part was, he was in too deep to extricate himself from the situation.

How he wished it was Sansa rallying the south at his side. The day before they were to ride up to Horn Hill, Jon thought he had somehow summoned Sansa’s specter to the encampment as he poured over the campaign map with Ser Davos, Daenerys and her council. Of course, it was just his desperation summoning memories of her voice. But memories sufficed in calming his escalating nerves.

When they set out for Horn Hill, Jon hoped the day’s parleys would be more pleasant than some of the negotiations he’d attended in weeks past. Sam wasn’t in the habit of dwelling on his family at Castle Black, so it was news to Jon when Tyrion informed him the Tarlys had been Targaryen loyalists since Aegon’s conquest. Sam’s father, Randyll Tarly had fought Robert Baratheon’s forces during the rebellion. Since then, they remained close to the Tyrells to stay in the Baratheon’s and Lannister’s good graces.

From what little Sam did say about his father, Jon pieced together that he was a cold and hard man; more concerned with the power of brute strength than the subtler craft of southron politics. Jon had a feeling he and Daenerys would get on like a keep on fire.

They were welcomed by the house guard—an honor worthy of a king. Waiting at the end of the guards’ formation were the Tarlys. Randyll and Dickon Tarly looked nothing like Sam. They were tall with broad builds; their faces weathered and mouths angled in a stern line. Jon saw none of Sam’s humor or compassion in their faces. He suddenly felt Sam’s life’s pain and resentment as his own and thought it best if he made himself scarce during the parley.

“Your Grace,” he called after Daenerys. “I think you’ll have a better chance in gaining Ser Randyll’s confidence if I am not an integral part of your council.” He hastened to add: “Just for today.”

Since their late-night encounter at Highgarden, the Mother of Dragons had taken to exercise her gentler, more feminine nature during her interactions with Jon. She heard and considered his counsel in earnest and tried to be close to and alone with him at every turn. During parleys she insisted he stayed to her right at all times. Jon wondered if she wished her future subjects to see him as her consort.

She looked at him indignantly upon hearing his request. Her expression was promptly replaced with an almost tender concern. “I won’t disguise my council for Lord Tarly’s comfort.”

“Believe me, it’s not so much for his comfort as it is for mine. Lord Tarly’s son was a brother of the Watch. He treated Sam cruelly and I’m not sure I can control my temper around such a man.”

Daenerys laughed. “I highly doubt he’ll be cruel in front of me.”

Jon didn’t join in her amusement.

“But if you really are reluctant, I suppose I’ll allow it. You’re not thinking of riding back to camp though, are you?”

“No, I’ll be with you all the way. I just ask I’m not announced.”

“All right.”

With a tilt of the head, Jon halted his horse and allowed the rest of the party to go ahead. He entered the gates of Horn Hill trailing behind the procession. Despite his precautions, Jon caught Ser Randyll’s attention. He felt the man’s hawk-like eyes trained on him as he dismounted and proceeded into the modest stronghold.

A lavish feast had been arranged in Daenerys’ honor. Once bellies were filled and thirsts quenched, the ladies of the household—Lady Mellessa and her three daughters—excused themselves from the banquet hall and Daenerys broached the reason behind their visit.

“A Targaryen on the Iron Throne once more.” Ser Randyll mused wistfully. “It certainly would make things right again.”

“So…” Daenerys chanced a glance at Jon sitting at the end of the hall. She fought off the joyous smile threatening to break loose. “We can expect your help?”

“The Tarlys have never aspired to lead. We are soldiers by nature. We best prefer following the lead.” His eyes found Jon and bore into him. “But when you follow another’s lead, you best decide on the side who serves your principles.”

Daenerys nodded. “The Targaryens and Tarlys have seen eye-to-eye for centuries. With your help, I _will_ return Westoros to its former glory.”

“Will you? Then tell me your Grace, how exactly do you intend on doing that by aligning yourself with someone who sees fit to allow Wildlings south of the Wall?”

Jon grew rigid. A small part of him was relieved he’d decided to leave Tormund with Brienne and Gendry at camp.

Ser Randyll now spoke directly to Jon across the hall. “Dark hair, a long, solemn face, and a ridiculous bloated northern cloak—don’t think I didn’t recognize you, boy. You’re Ned Stark’s bastard. The one that was at the Wall with Samwell before they called you the King of the North.”

Rising to his feet, Jon bowed his head. “My lord, I had the honor of serving alongside your son. He was as brave and cunning a man the Night’s Watch has ever known.”

Dickon and the rest of the Tarly House Guard burst into laughter.

“Brave and cunning, ey?” Ser Randyll grit his teeth. “You’re as much a liar as a traitor.”

“You will take care to address Lord Snow with respect,” Daenerys said, appalled and flustered.

Her reproach had no effect on Ser Randyll. “Was it you who convinced my eldest to bed a Wildling whore and bring her south?”

“The Wildlings are people, same as the two of us.” Jon suppressed the rage knocking on his restraint.

“The Wildlings have terrorized us—raping our women, pillaging our homes—for centuries. And you thought you’d let them through so that they could snatch our lands from us? You think I’d be willing to forge an alliance with a bastard with no regard for the good of the realm?”

“I had no choice but to let them through,” Jon bellowed. He quickly reined in his emotions. “They were going to die. There is something far deadlier than a few raiders out there.”

“Aye,” Ser Randyll sneered, a malicious glint in his eyes, “White Walkers. Samwell told me the same yarn while trying to distract me from his broken oath. You know what else he did when he last came to Horn Hill? He stole the Tarly family’s sword—Heartsbane. He took an interest in it after I told him it was made of Valyrian steel. He’s probably sold it to support that whore and child of his.”

“As your oldest son, I’d expect he’d have some claim to it.”

“He is not my son! Most certainly not since you’ve made a thief of him.”

“Lord Tarly!” Daenerys warned.

“No, your Grace,” Jon said calmly. “The fault lies with me. I should have known better than to come here today.” He looked Ser Randyll in the eye. “My duties lie north where the Great War against the undead awaits.”

“A fine farce you have her Grace believing,” Ser Randyll spat.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Jon said tersely. “House Tarly has followed House Targaryen for centuries. I implore you don’t change that on my account. As I said, I will be attending to my duties up north and her Grace will need you defending the south against Lannister aggression.”

“And will you answer the realm when the Wildlings massacre our people? I should’ve thrown you out soon as I recognized you. It was but courtesy that compelled me to allow you to break bread in my household.”

Jon wished to lash out at him. He gritted his teeth instead. “And now you have shown me my place.”

Fuming at Ser Randyll’s impudence, Daenerys opened her mouth to issue another tough reproach. Jon silenced her with a discreet shake of the head.

“I apologize if my presence here today has given you any offense, my lord. I will leave if that is what you wish. But before I do, Ser Randyll, I will have you know that the realm is truly lucky to have someone like Sam defending it. And I assure you he’ll put Heartsbane to good use.”

He flashed the elder man a gleeful smile, nodded for Daenerys to continue and took his leave.

***

Day progressed to night, then to day again. But still no babe.

Sansa paced about her bedchambers wearing nothing but the frailest nightrail she owned. Despite having all the windows thrown open, she was drenched in sweat. Her frame felt like it would crack in two with every contraction but they still weren’t close enough for her to push. Try as she did to hide her discomfort from her attendants, the silent tears streaming down her face told them everything.

She was afraid to lie down, afraid she’d slip into eternal darkness if she courted sleep. Maester Ruhskin and Val forced her to bed a fair few times insisting she needed to preserve all her strength for the big push. She’d do her best to stay awake but an uneasy sleep overpowered her every time. She heard her mother humming to her, calling to her. She heard her father’s deep, assuring voice thought it was muffled. Someplace else, she heard Robb chuckle. They were near. She could sense them but she couldn’t see them.

Sometimes she woke to another contraction. Sometimes woke to the direwolves’ incessant howls outside. Other times she woke to the cool feel of her forehead being sponged with ice water.

She was well into her second day of labor when she twisted the oilcloth she lay on and stifled another cry.

“They’re getting closer,” Maester Ruhskin said. “Let me have a see, my lady.”

Sansa parted her legs and winced at the feel of his fingers inspecting her. He sat up once he was done and let out a grave sigh.

“What is it?” Arya inquired. She set aside the bowl of clean snow she’d been using to sponge Sansa. “Is it time?”

“Her ladyship _is_ ready. It’s just…I had hoped that by now he would’ve turned.”

Sansa’s heart plummeted. Val and Arya exchanged a look of abject terror.

“Maester…my babe…is he—” A fit of sobs wracked Sansa’s chest.

“The babe is fine…that is, for the time being. He is in breech. It seems that he did not turn in the last few weeks.”

“So he’ll be out arse first then,” Val said. “It’s not uncommon.”

Maester Ruhskin pursed his lips. “Pushing the rear out first puts the child in harm’s way. It’s ill-advised lest you wish to risk cutting the child’s leg or breaking his neck.”

“No!” Sansa cried, arching her back in pain. The urge to push was becoming impossible to resist. “No, no..." She trailed off to hiss. “Tell me the truth, Maester. Does my babe have a chance to live or must I steel myself to bring a stillborn into the world?”

Maester Ruhskin didn’t reply.

“Answer her!” Arya’s voice cracked.

“It is possible to deliver the babe safely,” he said quietly. “The procedure is fairly common, only—“

The pressure between her legs building to unbearable heights, Sansa squeezed her eyes shut and bit into her bottom lip. _I mustn’t scream._

“Only what?” Arya pressed.

“I’ll have to cut her ladyship open. I can dig the babe from the womb without inflicting any injury on him.”

Val shook her head in protest. “Spearwives only resort to cutting if the mother’s dead.”

“Yes.” He fixed his morose eyes on Sansa. “I can stitch you back up but there’s no telling if you’ll ever heal. My lady, forgive me but you must make a choice. Your life or the babe’s.”

Sansa’s vision blurred. Whether it was from her tears or her pain, she could not say. She just wanted it to be over. She reached for Arya’s hand and squeezed.

“Get me Rickon. He needs to know so he’s not—“

A sudden chill shot up her body and cut her off. Fresh sweat sprang from her skin. Her shivers had her grasping for words.

Arya pressed the back of her palm to her forehead. “She’s burning up. Shut the windows!”

“Get me Rickon, please. Tell him he needs to be brave.”

“My lady,” Maester Ruhskin took Sansa’s hand, “the fever will weaken you. If you wait much longer, you won’t have the strength to push.”

“I don’t want my babe to die,” Sansa whimpered.

“You can take a chance and push now or I can pry the babe from your womb.”

Arya shook Sansa’s hand. “Push Sansa. Push him out now.”

“I ca—I can’t hurt him.” She gathered what little authority she could muster and directed it at Maester Ruhskin. “You have my permission. I’m not afraid. Just—just make sure my babe makes it out alive.”

“Others take your permission!” Val spat. She shoved Arya aside and sat Sansa up. “Now you listen to me, Sansa Stark! I made Snow a promise to keep you safe before he left and I’ll be damned if you make me go back on my word.”

“Some things aren’t in our control, Val.” A weak smile graced Sansa’s tired face.

“ _This_ is in your control. I won’t have you giving up now, you hear me? We’re going to get this babe out of you alive and well, and you’re going to live to see him grow into a strong lad. Understood?”

Hauling Sansa off the bed, Val instructed her to grab onto Arya’s shoulders. She then went around and squatted between Sansa’s legs.

“Here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to push until the babe’s arse is out and then I’ll ease his legs out one my one. Maester, do you have something the likes of tongs among your things?”

“The forceps you mean?”

“Can it be used to clamp a babe’s head steady?”

“I reckon so.”

“Then I’ll be needing those forceps.” Val massaged the inside of Sansa’s thighs. “When I say, I want you to push as hard as you can, understand?”

Lightheaded from the fever, Sansa didn’t answer.

“Sansa!” Arya shook her slightly. Her hands bolted her sister’s arms to her shoulders. “Push.”

“And by the Old Gods, woman,” Val ordered, “scream! Now!”

Leaning all her weight on Arya, Sansa took a deep breath. A bloodcurdling scream ripped through her as she pushed with the remaining life she had left.

***

Jon started awake in his cot to the sound of a woman’s scream. It seemed to come from far away but it pierced through his heart with such force, the ground beneath him could have split open.

He and Ser Davos had come down Horn Hill to regroup with the northern party. Still angry over Ser Randyll’s treatment of him, Jon stomped off to his tent where he eventually dosed off.

He put a hand to his aching chest, perplexed by the strange heaviness bearing down on him. He was a man grown. Ser Randyll’s cruel nature should not have affected him so. Deep down he knew it wasn’t Ser Randyll who caused this pain, but he didn’t want to dwell on the alternative.

He was about to reach for his waterskin when Ser Davos bounded into his tent.

“Lord Snow!”

Gone was the Onion Knight’s usual calm demeanor. His eyes were wide with terror and he was out of breath.

 “What is it?”

“Daenerys.” He backtracked out of the tent without further explanation.

Jon followed in his heels and followed his advisor’s gaze up Horn Hill where flames engulfed the Tarlys’ stronghold and Drogon circled it, breathing more fire upon its walls.

Rallying Tormund, Brienne and Gendry, Jon leapt onto his horse and raced up the hill. Small folk and Tarly bannermen had mercifully managed to escape. As for Sam’s family…Jon could not get close enough to the stronghold to tell. He hoped he had missed their faces among the throngs of people fleeing the scene, but he knew better than to put stock in his hopes. He escorted the remaining folk left in the stronghold’s burning confines to safer ground. There wasn’t much else he could do. Sam’s childhood was razed to ashes.

Honor called for Jon to escort the survivors back to their encampment and offer them food and shelter. But Jon was the enemy. It was a miracle he and his trusted companions hadn’t been rounded up by the mob. There was nothing left for him to do but turn back and prepare for possible retaliation. Nature dictated his chain of thought. But halfway down the hill, when there was enough space between himself and the calamity at hand, it occurred to him that he was not responsible for any of this.

Daenerys had not sought his counsel. This was all her doing. Why should he defend her for her heinous actions?

He grew angrier the closer they got to camp. Daenerys had already returned by the time they arrived. Tyrion hurled heated reprimands her way as she fed Drogon a lamb’s carcass. They didn’t affect her in the least. She saw Jon watching her from afar; sensed his displeasure at her actions, but made no move to explain herself. No, she held her head high. Her expression told him he ought to be grateful.

He was not.

He met Tyrion’s weary gaze. The Imp offered no explanation either but something in his look of resignation told Jon that Daenerys was beyond reason.

“Ser Davos,” Jon growled, “tell the others to gather their things. We head north at first light.”

“My lord, we are all able men,” Ser Davos said as they headed to their tents, “but given the weather, to journey north by land is a fool’s errand. If the Wall is to be breached as you suspect, we’ll never make it back in time.”

“We’ll make sure we make it back in time, come snow or rains of fire. I won’t spend another day under the shadow of a mad woman.”

Ser Davos tried to reason with him. They desperately needed Daenerys’ dragons to survive the Long Night. But Jon wouldn’t hear him. He shuddered at the notion of having to explain himself to Sam—he _was_ answerable to him.  The woman he had knowingly allied himself with had just massacred his family. How could he ever face his dearest friend again?   

With the exception of the guard patrolling the outskirts of the camp, the rest of Daenerys’ men settled for the night within a few hours. Jon and his company quietly dismantled their tents and shoved their belongings into their saddle bags. When the first streaks of pale blue peered over the eastern horizon, they snuck their horses out of the encampment on foot a few miles, then rode north at full speed.

To their collective dismay, a colossal shadow swept over them. Accompanying it were hair-raising guttural cries they’d all grown accustomed to by now.

“Seven Hells!” Jon muttered as he looked up at Rhaegal. “Go back to your mother your beastly animal!”

The dragon uttered an almost pleading purr in response. He wasn’t going anywhere. Jon wondered if they could all simply ride the beast to Winterfell. He certainly was large enough to accommodate them all. If it were possible...why, he could reunite with Sansa before the babe came. He could hold his babe in his arms, see for himself when it opened its eyes for the first time.

“His brothers and mother won’t be far behind,” Ser Davos quipped.

He wasn’t wrong. A few hours later, Drogon flew circles around Rhaegal and dove aground, blocking their path. Jon rode ahead, ordering his company to stand back. He didn’t want to risk them getting burned.

Daenerys dismounted from Drogon and regarded him with clenched fists. “I trust you have a reason for leaving without word of your whereabouts.”

“I’ve been away from home long enough. It’s clear your duties confine you to the south. I must do what I can to protect my people from what lies beyond the Wall.”

“Jon,” Daenerys’ stance softened. She closed the distance between them. Giddy excitement gleamed in her eyes. “Dickon Tarly’s agreed to ally with us.”

“And you repaid his loyalty by burning his home to the ground?”

Her face fell. “Randyll Tarly knew what you meant to me. In disrespecting you, he disrespected me! And I will not tolerate those I—those I consider loyal to me being humiliated as you were yesterday.”

Jon scoffed. “You won’t tolerate…And am I to be grateful for your actions?”

His anger made her stumble back.

“Answer me!”

“Jon, I did it out of love for your friendship, for your presence by my side, for everything you stand for.”

“And do you truly believe I’d stand for the murder of the father to my brother in Black? That I’d stand for the destruction of his childhood home?”

“Randyll Tarly was cruel to you! He humiliated you for all to see.”

“If you knew me at all, you’d know I’d never answer cruelty with cruelty.”

Tears welled in Daenerys’ violet eyes. “Jon, please, don’t say it like that.”

“You can call it what you will. Just like you can take the Iron Throne without my help. Let me go home.” He retreated to his horse. “And take your bloody dragon with you.”

“Jon, you’re right!” Daenerys pursued him, her words dripping with desperation. “You’re right! I was cruel! I shouldn’t have burned the stronghold down! I’ll rebuild it, as good as new. I’ll be a good Queen. You have my word. I’ll provide the people of Horn Hill with food and shelter till their homes are built anew. I’ll do everything I can to make it up to them…just please don’t go back.” She grabbed him by the cloak and shook him. “Please.”

Dumbstruck by her sudden outburst, Jon gulped to wet his dry throat. “I’ve been gone too long. The Night’s Watch needs my help for the coming darkness.”

Daenerys fingered the fur on his cloak, deep in thought. She splayed her palms over his chest and leaned into him as though to give him a kiss. “Then I’ll come with you. With Drogon and Rhaegal and Viserion. We will destroy the White Walkers together and the realm will know who their true protectors are.”

***

Wails—no, shrill bursts of raven-like caws—fished through the darkness. They hooked onto Sansa’s senses and reeled her back to the light. She stood slack in Arya’s arms, disoriented, dripping, and burning with pain.

“Well done, my lady,” Maester Ruhskin rejoiced. “A healthy boy. Very well done! And you too, Lady Val.”

“Oh, he’ll be a wise one—your boy,” Val marveled.

Sansa’s back touched the oilcloth on her bed and her legs were hoisted up after. Sweet relief. Only just.

“She’s still burning, Maester,” Arya’s voice echoed in the hollow chambers of her mind. “You need to give her something.”

“Yes, I’ve got some milk of poppy, but not yet.” He rubbed Sansa’s arm to keep her alert. “My lady, just another push. We can’t leave the afterbirth to fester.”

The crying continued. Sansa pushed. From the corner of her eye, she saw Val wash a tiny squirming doll in the basin and swaddle it in linen.

“Very well done, my lady,” Maester Ruhskin said again as her head fell back. Checking the afterbirth in a bowl to see if all of it had come out, he nodded. “Good. And now I won’t hesitate to give you the milk of poppy.”

“Wait.” Fighting to keep her eyes open, Sansa stretched her arms out to Val. “May I?“

Val placed the tiny bundle in her arms. He barely fit both her palms but he kicked so vigorously the linens swaddling him came loose. Sansa daintily passed a finger over his hair. Dark and curly like his father’s. But at the front, just above his forehead, was a prominent tuft of silver hair.

_No_. Sansa’s remaining strength drained from her.

As though to assure her she was not mistaken, the babe lifted his lids just enough to show his mother his violet eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! This was a tough one to write. Fun Fact: My outline for this chapter ended with: "Sansa's baby boy looks like Richard Madden" lol. It was in reference to his adorable grey streak which turned out to be excellent inspiration for baby Jonsa. And yeah, this spells trouble.
> 
> As always, thank you for leaving me some love! I'm going to go and take a nap now.


	24. Gauging the Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We pick up where we left off: Sansa has given birth to a violet-eyed baby. Horrified by Daenerys' burning of Randyll Tarly and Horn Hill, Jon attempts to return north, but changes his mind when Daenerys promises to help him fight the Night King.

Sansa’s fever passed come daybreak, but the trials of the birthing bed had left her body weak, in need of time to heal. In the few days she remained confined to her chambers, she lost her heart to her wee babe.

Having ordered his crib brought to her bedside from the nursery, Sansa rarely looked away from her perfect boy; her son, Robb Snow.

Arya had dyed the tuft of silver hair over his forehead black while Sansa was unconscious. When Sansa beheld him on waking, she thought she had dreamed up his Targaryen features. It wasn’t before she put his mouth to her teat to feed, and he looked up at her that she realized that it was all real. His very existence put her, her family, the north, and especially Jon in grave danger.

But somehow, as her newborn contently suckled at her breast, her fears dissipated. She reveled at the feel of his tiny frame squirming in her arms, clutching the neckline of her nightrail as if his life depended on her touch, and softly breathing against her bare skin. She and Jon had made him from nothing; just their love. _There won’t be any songs written about my homely ways,_ she thought to herself, _but it doesn’t matter._ She had a finer legacy now in Robb.

Though Maester Ruhskin insisted on enlisting a wet-nurse, Sansa nursed Robb herself. To avoid word of the color of his eyes spreading, she refused to let any of her handmaids or servants hold him, and only allowed them to look upon him as he slept. They, along with the rest of the household, found nothing strange about the arrangement. It was common knowledge that first-time mothers were rather possessive. Sansa knew she couldn’t keep Robb hidden away at her bosom forever, though.  She only wished she knew how to keep the world from discovering his true identity.

With Arya standing in as Lady of Winterfell during this time, Sansa had plenty of time to concoct a believable tale. Every idea seemed more preposterous than the next. The most logical solution seemed to go into exile…to Skagos perhaps. That way, their bannermen remained loyal to Jon, and Rickon would remain in Winterfell as its lord with Arya by his side, watching over him.

But what became of her son if word reached Daenerys? The Dragon Queen’s thirst for power was apparent in all the decisions Jon indifferently detailed in his missives to Winterfell. There simply was no escaping the wrath of a conqueror armed with three grown dragons.

“He senses your distress, you know,” Arya’s voice pierced through Sansa’s stormy thoughts.

At her breast, a red-faced Robb squealed in agitation and clenched his fists for strength.

“Sssh ssh ssh,” Sansa cooed, stroking down his nose. “Mama didn’t mean to scare you.” She guided his mouth back to her nipple. After a moment’s suspicion, Robb resumed suckling.

“He’s starting to look more like him every day,” Arya said, utterly enraptured by her nephew.

“Mmm.” A smile played at Sansa’s lips as she played with his soft black curls. “Everything goes well about the castle?”

With a tired huff, Arya sank into her chair. “It’s coming along. Most of the outer wall’s corners have been rounded and evened. Not even Bran could scale them now.” A sad smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “The communal hall should be ready within a few weeks, but I still doubt whether the structure will be enough to keep everyone warm all winter.”

“Send word to everyone in Wintertown to collect furs while they can still hunt. And tell them to bring all their warm clothes, and bedrolls with them.” Sansa rested her head against her pillows.

No matter how many structures they raised within Winterfell’s enclosure, it would be impossible to ensure the comfort and good health of everyone in the north. Regardless, they _had_ to try.  

“The first consignment of weapons for the Wall set out this morning. Still no word on Willas’ gold,” Arya continued. She hastily added, “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. The Skagosi know that the Kingslayer is Olenna Tyrell’s hostage. They’ll get their gold when they get it.

“The boys and men are improving at close combat. The women are getting comfortable with their archery. They prefer a crossbow to a longbow, but we don’t have enough crossbows for everyone so they’ll have to make do. I’ve had a few barrels of pitch sent up to the battlements to light arrows with when the time comes.”

“Good. Make sure they know to tell the normal arrows from the ones with dragonglass heads. There’s no use in lighting those on fire.”

“Aye, and I’ve told the smiths to only use the dragonglass for the arrowheads, not the stem.”

Robb hummed in contentment. His eyes flickered in his sleep. Sansa lowered him into his crib and redid the ties on her nightrail. She climbed out of bed to stretch her legs. It was a grey day outside. From her window she saw men and women slow to a leisurely pace after the hard day’s work behind them. All of them, and so many more out there faced imminent death; be it from the cold, from the north, or from the south.

She paced to and fro, her hand massaging the small of her back. “If the Others make it past the Wall,” she thought out loud, “we can only fend them off for so long.”

“Jon will be here with the dragons before long.” Arya’s confidence waned. “Won’t he?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that we have to do everything we can to keep the undead from encroaching our walls.”

 _If only we had wildfire._ Yes, Sansa could ask Maester Ruhskin if he knew how to concoct it. She cautioned herself, though. Even if he could, its making would put her own people at risk. Fatal accidents were the last thing they needed. There had to be something…

“What if we built pyres?” Sansa asked.

Arya considered it. “Within range of the archers. We could coat them with pitch. I’ll have to assign men to clear them of snow before nightfall, but it could work.”

“Well,” Sansa pivoted, arms swinging, “that’s a start, I suppose.”

Quirking an eyebrow at her elder sister, Arya started, “How did you even—“

A knock at the door cut her off. It was Maester Ruhskin with a raven from Castle Black. The blood drained from Sansa’s face as he handed her the sealed scroll. _We’re not ready._ _The Night’s Watch doesn’t have enough dragonglass. Jon hasn’t returned with the dragons._

She gasped on reading the first few lines of the Lord Commander’s message.

“What is it?” Arya rushed to her side.

“They have him!” Voice near hushed from joy, Sansa looked up at Maester Ruhskin. “They have Bran!”

Arya took the missive from Sansa and read it all the way through. “He’s on his way home.” She was grave when she handed it back to Sansa. “You need to summon the bannermen.”

Reading the whole message herself, the joy Sansa had felt a mere moment ago disappeared. She heaved a sigh, wistfully glanced at her sleeping babe, and settled down at her desk to write to the Stark bannermen.

They assembled at Winterfell by week’s end. Arya relieved Sansa from the daunting task of greeting each of them at the gate. The sisters thought it best that Sansa avoided meeting with the lords individually lest they inquired about the identity of Robb’s father. Not that such precautions prevented any such inquiry; northmen did not differentiate between intimate and public matters. Wee Robb was the first issue raised at the council.

Sansa had barely taken her seat at the head of the Great Hall when Lord Cerwyn began. “You look well, my lady. I trust the babe is in good health.”

Sansa had left Robb in Val’s trusted care. Yet, a simply query such as Lord Cerwyn’s tempted her to reach for Jon’s dagger strapped to her calf. She masked her feral protectiveness with an easy amiability. “Yes, he is very well, thank you, Lord Cerwyn.”

“My lady, there are rumors spreading. Rumors that are not befitting of the lady of Winterfell. They say the boy is the get of a wildling.”

A chorus of disapproving grunts rumbled through the hall.

“Robb Snow is my son,” Sansa said, her tone leaving little room for argument. “He is a Snow, yes. I shouldn’t think that would be a problem, Lord Cerwyn. Rickon remains lord of Winterfell and Jon remains your king.”

“A king who has abandoned his home and his people to cavort with the Mad King’s daughter.” It was Lord Glover who spoke.

The reason behind Jon’s absence was kept hushed as long as possible. But once Daenerys Targaryen and her retinue set foot on the mainland, there was no hiding his whereabouts.  “The Mad King’s daughter is in possession of an army and three fully grown dragons. Jon’s already secured Highgarden and its grain stock with her help, and he believes he can convince the southron nobility to ally with us.

“My lords, I understand your reservations. I am well-versed in history, and I know what a Targeryen roaming the realm means. But believe me, Jon wouldn’t have gone if he’d seen a way around it. We need Daenerys Targaryen, her might, and her dragons if we are to survive the Long Night.”

“But my lady,” Lord Hornwood said, “I must remind you that in Jon Snow’s absence, the people now look to you to guide them through the long night.”

“Thank you, Lord Hornwood,” Sansa said curtly. “I assure you that whatever can be done to ensure the north’s safety is being done. Arya and Rickon will be more than happy to show you the new fortifications and accommodations we’ve built.”

“Soldiers and smallfolk are drawn to leaders who embody strength, stability, and _honor_ , my lady,” said Lord Cerwyn. “It is our opinion that the north will question your authority should you remain an unwed mother to a bastard child.”

Beside her, Arya grew rigid. Her fists clenched around the armrest of her seat. Sansa placed a soothing hand on hers.

“What do you suggest, my lord?” Sansa asked. If she was irked, she did not show it.

“Well…” Lord Cerwyn tucked his chin into his chest, then shrugged. “Now that the wildlings are south of the Wall, why not strengthen the bond between our two peoples? You may marry the babe’s father. I daresay the union will encourage our folk to get along with theirs.”

Sansa smiled. “That’s very kind of you, Lord Cerwyn. It’s my greatest wish to unite my family under the Old Gods, but I’m afraid I’d be very foolish if I were to do so now. We are on the brink of a long war, and we need allies. My marriage is an option I’d like to keep open in the event such need arises. Am I wrong in thinking along these lines?”

Lord Cerwyn conferred with the other house heads. Sansa watched brows furrow, heads shake, hands gesticulate passionately as they deliberated. Looking on, Sansa remembered the Red Wedding. Would these men and women betray her for not doing as they said?

The climate in the hall turned tepid. The bannermen seemed to grasp Sansa’s logic, but the seeds of fear had already nestled within her. Wetting her dry mouth, she somberly said, “Night’s chill bites harder at the bone with each passing day. Many of us may not live to see the dawn. Now is the time to reflect on the legacies we wish to leave behind. Whether we wish to be remembered as shrewd and noble, or northern fools.”

“Here, here!” Lyanna Mormont approved.

“Here, here!” Alys Karstark followed. The men chimed in as well.

On either side of Sansa, Arya and Rickon loosed their breaths in relief.

“Now if I may,” Sansa said, voice booming through the hall. The bannermen fell silent. “I have some news. My brother, Bran is alive at Castle Black. Lord Commander Tollett has assigned him an escort to see him home.”

The hall threatened to burst into another round of cheers but Sansa raised her hand, signaling that there was more.

“While he was north of the Wall, Bran saw things. It’s difficult to explain without him being here to tell you, but…All I can say is that he is knowledgeable of the Night King’s whereabouts.”

“But that’s impossible!”

Ignoring the comment, Sansa continued. “According to him, the Night King and his army are headed to Eastwatch. I’ve written to Jon, and to Highgarden and Dorne to send reinforcements, but there’s no telling how long they’ll take. We have to send men of our own.”

A cacophony of conflicting views and complaints erupted again. On and on it continued as Sansa settled qualms, answered queries, and troop numbers, weapons and grain stock were discussed at length. Finally, the bannermen concluded that that they could spare no more than forty-five men to send to Eastwatch. Inadequate as the numbers were, Sansa accepted. Demanding more men would only draw more ire.

The sun had set by the time discussions were adjourned. Dismissing her guests and ordering dinner to be served shortly, Sansa hurried to the nursery. Under her heavy furs, her dress was soaked in milk. She arrived just as Robb, eyes heavy with sleep, nails scratching at his ear, began howling.

“There she is!” Val bounced him in her arms. “There’s mama.”

Throwing off her cloak, Sansa swiftly undid the ties on the back of her dress, slid the sleeves off her shoulders, and released her throbbing breasts from her shift. Sweet relief swept over her as Robb began suckling. He moaned hungrily, then softly, and slowly drifted off to sleep. He didn’t have a care in the world; was just happy to be in his mother’s arms. Admiring the way his tiny chest rose and fell with each breath, Sansa realized everything she endured, everything she would have to endure in the coming days—it was all worth it.

***

Jon gave Daenerys and her beasts a long head-start before following her back to the foot of Horn Hill where they were camped. She may have agreed to give him what he came south for, but he still felt sick for joining forces with her—the murderer of his oath brother’s kin.

Pride—it had been some time since he had swallowed it. Circumstances had not required it of him since he escaped the freefolk. As Lord Commander and King he was allowed to be frank and serve justice as he saw fit. Authority had spoiled him. He couldn’t be the invisible bastard of Winterfell again, nor could he be the silent turncloak who deceived the freefolk for nearly two years.

Sansa had warned him. She had foreseen Daenerys’ vanity and hunger for power, and she had advised he forego his pride to her flatter her whims. That night—the night of their wedding—Jon had wondered how she drew such a precise study of a stranger. Now, he knew it had nothing to do with her impression of Daenerys and everything to do with how well she knew him. She knew he’d want to do the honorable thing, and she’d made sure he wouldn’t.

Perhaps the Northern cause would have fared better if Sansa were here in his stead.

With his beloved wife’s words at the forefront of this thoughts, he searched for a way to cope. He was still angry, but he knew it was unwise to upset Daenerys. There had to be a way he could distance himself from her, and still retain her trust and her promise to go north. The solution came to him as they neared camp. A quick word with Ser Davos on the matter was foregone though, for a disquieting scene was unfolding on the outskirts of the encampment.

A group of quivering small folk and a number of House Tarly’s guard were assembled before Daenerys and Drogon. Encircling them, the Dothraki had their arakhs drawn, ready to strike.

Using a flat-topped boulder for a dais, Daenerys looked down at the frightened people of Horn Hill with stony violet eyes that looked red in the morning sun. Hands pressed together over her stomach and rigidly aligned posture, she seemed a lifeless effigy of the New Gods. At her side, Tyrion pleadingly murmured something. Jon saw her mouth something in reply which made him bow his head in defeat.

“I don’t see where the quarrel is here,” she said to the gathered small folk. “I’ve vowed to rebuild your homes, and the Tarly holdfast. But I also think you should have some part in those efforts. Nobody will be fleeing to Highgarden.” After a slight pause, she haughtily added, “As your Queen, I forbid it.”

A crooked-backed peasant stepped forward, separating himself from the others. His daughter tried to pull him back, but he brushed her off.

Daenerys smiled triumphantly. “Yes, brave man.”

“Baratheons, Lannisters, Targaryens, none of it matters to us. Us smallfolk,” he said, “we serve Randyll Tarly. You destroy our ‘omes, you burn our children and our cattle, you make a traitor of young master Dickon, and you leave us no food fer the win’er. You’ve doomed us all to die and you’ve got no right calling yerself our queen.”

The pale-haired heir’s face fell. Swallowing an angry outburst, she sneered. “Very well then. Does anyone else share this man’s sentiments?”

There was some hesitation. Most of the smallfolk remained unmoving, but a handful stepped forward to join the peasant. Daenerys signaled a Dothrak to position before Drogon.

Jon spurred his horse into Daenerys’ line of vision and dismounted. Reining in his impulse to stop the proceedings himself and launch sharp reprimands her way, he simply locked eyes with her.

 _You needn’t handle it like this,_ he wanted to say. _Come on, come on. Remember the promise you just made, you mad woman! Don’t do this!_ The wait for a response was excruciating.

The taut set of Daenerys’ jaw slackened. She looked from Jon to the smallfolk huddled together, waiting for Drogon’s fiery breath to consume them.

Eyes cast down, she loosed a breath in resignation. “Those of you intent on going to Highgarden will be escorted by my men. You will accompany them on their return with ample grain for the winter. The rest of you will stay on and help rebuild Horn Hill. Enough time has been wasted on this matter. I don’t want to hear of it again.”

Brushing past Tyrion, she descended from the boulder and stormed off to her tent. Jon acknowledged Tyrion’s grateful nod and followed in Daenerys’ heels.

She had her back to him when he entered. Her fists clenched and unclenched at her sides. Sensing the mounting tension, Missandei excused herself from the tent, leaving them alone.

“You did well,” Jon said.

Daenerys shot him a pursed-lip glare. Jon replied with a genial smile. He hoped it didn’t come across too trite.

Shoulders slumping, Daenerys blinked the barely-tamed madness from her eyes. A trickle of vulnerability snuck into her voice when she spoke. “They won’t kneel if my justice is so…accommodating of their wishes.”

“They’ll kneel because you saw to their well-being.”

“You saw how that peasant spoke to me. How he questioned my decisions. If I am to be lenient for every pitiful peasant who is inconvenienced, who’s to say the dogs who betrayed my family won’t take exploit it?”

Jon sighed. “Your subjects would have questioned and criticized your decisions regardless of who you are: Baratheon, Lannister, Targaryen, Stark, or even Snow.” His hand unconsciously came up to his heart where he’d been stabbed. “You can either silence them with fire and blood, or you can address the root of their troubles.”

This didn’t placate Daenerys as Jon had hoped. Had he said something wrong? _Gods, help me._

“Give it time,” he said softly. He took her hand and stroked her knuckles with his thumb. “They’re a suspicious lot, the smallfolk. You need to earn their trust.”

His touch took Daenerys by surprise. She suppressed a gasp and looked up at him, hope radiating from her parted lips.

“There’s something I must ask of you,” Jon said gravely. He now enclosed her hand in both of his. “I want Samwell Tarly to hear of yesterday’s events from me, not by raven. He’s my brother, and he’s one of the few people who know more about white walkers than I do. I owe him this much.”

Daenerys furrowed her brows. “But surely news will reach Castle Black before we get there ourselves.”

“No, Sam’s in Old Town. It will be a short trip. A sennight most like.”

“You—you want to leave me?”

Jon gave her hand a squeeze. “Believe me, I wouldn’t if I didn’t think it necessary. Besides, you’ll be busy with Horn Hill. You’ll barely notice I’m gone.”

Looking down at their joined hands, Daenerys smiled. “I don’t know. I’ve grown used to having you by my side.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

“You will give your sworn brother my regards. I’ll have an escort arranged for you.”

Jon thought it best not to argue with her on that. She knew full well he and his companions could protect themselves. The escort was meant to ensure their return to her.

He took his leave to inform Ser Davos and the others of his plans. Try as he did, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Daenerys was watching him. The last time he’d felt this uneasy, Littlefinger had taken up residence at Winterfell. Waiting for the escort, he despaired at how much longer he had to continue minding his words and curbing his true nature.

It wasn’t till dawn the next morning that Tyrion informed him his escort was assembled and ready to leave. He looked exhausted. “Must you go, Lord Snow?”

Jon chuckled. “I’ll never get used to you calling me that.”

“Don’t worry, I still _think_ of you as Ned Stark’s bastard.”

“And I still think of you as the Imp who pissed off the Wall.”

On their way to the horses, Tyrion panted from his efforts to keep up with Jon. “Don’t be gone long, Lord Snow. Something tells me this campaign won’t go very far without you at its helm.”

Jon looked at him, surprised..

“But you didn’t hear that from me,” Tyrion said, his words devoid of his signature wryness. He was just as perplexed by the current state of affairs as Jon was.

Jon, Ser Davos, Brienne, Gendry, Tormund and five surly Dothraks rode hard for Old Town. They rode day and night, only stopping to rest their horses, and shut their eyes a few hours. It started snowing on the third day. While it was nothing compared to what Jon, Ser Davos, Brienne and Tormund had experienced up north, Gendry and the Dothrakis’ reaction to the white flurries gave Jon pause.

Many of Daenerys’ army had fallen ill during their tour of the south. Her men belonged to sunny shores, and were unaccustomed to winter’s bite. How likely were they to survive the winter, let alone fight the army of the undead under severe conditions? Even worse, what if their sickness spread to the Westorosi.

These were only some of the questions he hoped Sam would help him answer. Delivering news of Ser Randyll’s death—while honorable—had only been a ruse to slip past Daenerys. Not that that made the task itself any more attractive to Jon.

At Old Town, Jon headed straight to the Citadel to ask after Sam. The sullen maester stationed at the entrance informed him that Brother Samwell was making his rounds, and that they may wait while he finished. Minutes stretched into hours. The Dothraki grew restless. When they began voicing their displeasure, Ser Davos, Gendry and Tormund lured them out to the town square in search of accommodations and nightly pleasures.

“Well that was easier than expected,” Brienne remarked.

Indeed. Without prying ears about, Jon could speak to Sam freely. That is, if he ever finished making his damned rounds.

The sun had set when a round figure in shit and blood stained robes emerged from a dark corridor. A sagacious beard clung to his red face now, but it was still the same good-hearted Sam who beamed on seeing him.

Jon didn’t—couldn’t—return his warm greeting. Sam immediately knew something was wrong.

He showed no outward signs of grief when Jon told him. After the initial shock, he invited Jon and Brienne to the daub house the citadel had assigned him in town to accommodate Gilly and wee Sam. Once Brienne learned the way to the modest abode, Jon sent her out to find Ser Davos to let him and the Dothrak men know where he was.

Jon watched Sam closely. He watched him kiss Gilly good evening, and affectionately hug wee Sam. He was his quiet, pleasant self when he offered him a seat by the fire. His voice wasn’t on edge as it should have been and his expression showed no sign of resentment towards Jon. It was almost as though he didn’t believe the news. It was hard for such realities to set in sometimes, especially when one was so far removed.

But Jon knew that wasn’t true. He remembered his own reckless impulses when news of Uncle Ned’s execution first reached him. He also remembered how subdued he was in receiving news of Robb’s death two years later. Death had become a staple like the air they breathed and the bread they ate. Somewhere amidst the chaos and bloodshed, he and Sam had grown into the grim truth of being men.

When their bellies were full, and they each had a tankard of ale in their hands, Jon recounted all that had happened since he and Sansa received Tyrion’s raven summoning him to Dragonstone.

“He said she’d be coming with three full grown dragons,” Sam said introspectively, “but I just assumed he’d gone a little soft in the head from being in confinement so long.”

“He, who?” asked Jon.

“Jorah. Jorah Mormont. Son of the Lord Commander, aye. He’s here, at the Citadel. I’ve been treating him for greyscale, though don’t go telling anyone that because I’m not supposed to be doing anything of the sort.”

“Sam,” Jon said most sincerely, “I understand if you—it can’t be easy for you. Knowing that I—but you have to understand I—”

“I do,” Sam interrupted him. “Understand, I mean. Blimey, Jon, dragons! If there’s anything that’s going to beat the Night King’s army, it’s got to be three bloody dragons, doesn’t it? This is how it’s got to be.”

Jon swiped his hand over his face, groaning in frustration. “Well, I wouldn’t get too excited just yet. Daenerys—she’s just about as reasonable as those bloody beasts of hers.”

“Aaah…” Sam twiddled his thumbs. “Maester Aemon always did say, didn’t he, though? ‘A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.’”

Jon had never heard Maester Aemon say so, but hearing it now made him shift in his seat. He shook the eeriness creeping up on him off, and thought of more pleasant things. Like Sansa.

“Listen, Sam, there’s another reason I came to Old Town. You know about the Targaryen’s use of wildfire, no doubt?”

Sam leaned forward, intrigued. “Aye.”

“Tyrion Lannister used it to defeat Stannis in the Battle of the Blackwater. And then a wildfire accident killed Queen Margaery and her family inside King’s Landing. If you were to make inquiries, could you find out how to make it?”

A nervous laugh escaped Sam. “If the stories are to be believed, in the wrong hands, wildfire can kill its own makers.”

“That’s a chance we’ll have to take. I’ll do my best to bring the dragons and their queen north, but we need something to fall back on.”

“Aye,” Sam said, quietly. “I’ll see what I can find.”

“And…” Jon thought aloud, the wheels spinning in his head. He needed to see past the immediate future. “I also need accounts of how the dragons of old were killed.”

Sam’s eyes widened.

“They’re invaluable to us now, yes,” Jon said, eyes glimmering with conviction. “But the realm will not know peace so long as they stay alive.”

“Fair enough.”

The rest of the evening was spent planning. Lord Mormont’s son, Jorah was expected to be cleared of greyscale in a few. Sam suggested Jon remain in Old Town till then so Jorah could accompany him back to Daenerys. The brief sojourn would give Sam time to dig through the archives for the information Jon wanted. If he didn’t find all of it by then, he was to continue his research until he was sure he had enough. Then, he was to head to Winterfell where Sansa would arrange for the materials and manpower required to concoct the wildfire.

By the time their ideas were exhausted, wee Sam was fast asleep and Gilly dozed over the book she had been reading.

“How time flies…” Sam remarked, smiling.

 _…when we’re among friends,_ Jon completed the thought.

Sam had to return to the citadel to administer Jorah Mormont his treatment (“I can’t do it when everyone’s awake, you see”), so he accompanied Jon out and pointed him in the direction of the town’s inns where Brienne and the others might be.

Thanking his old friend, Jon parted ways with him, feeling lighter than he had in a long time. He’d managed to put a few feet between them before pivoting. “Hey, Sam!”

“Aye?”

“The maester you sent to Winterfell, did you know him? Was he any good?”

He couldn’t make out Sam’s expression in the dark, but he saw the slight tilt of his head. “What maester?”

“You know, the one I sent for…after Rickon returned.”

“No, I would’ve remembered if I’d gotten a raven about that. Would you like me to arrange for someone? I mean…they won’t like my leaving and then asking for another to come with me. But I can make a case for it, if that’s what you want.”

Jon froze. If a maester hadn’t been sent to Winterfell, Sansa was due to give birth without proper aid.  

“Jon?” Sam inquired through the dark. “Is something the matter?”

“N-no, it’s all right _,_ ” he spluttered. _It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s all right._ “Val and the spearwives can handle it, I’m sure.”

He had no choice but to believe it.

***

Daenerys had only known the King of the North a few moons, but his absence left her feeling hollow and incomplete. True, the invisible wall he kept raised between them frustrated her, but she was more than willing to tear it down, stone by stone. Some days the challenge of him was all that kept her going, for he was a living, breathing man who was worthy of her; more palpable than a throne she had only seen in hazy visions.

The Iron Throne. Her birthright. She had an army. She had three dragons. Yet, the days plodded on with no purpose: settling petty squabbles among smallfolk and her men, parleying with discourteous lords, living out of tents and lackluster holdfasts. Nothing tasted or smelled like the glory the Targaryen name once commanded. She was being led in circles and she feared the wheel she’d come to break would just make another spoke of her.

Their prolonged stay at Horn Hill made her restless. Every hour spent in one place gave enemy scouts the chance to report on her location. She was exposed and vulnerable, and she sat idle when she could be retaking King’s Landing.

It occurred to her that she could take King’s Landing before heading north with Jon Snow. Dickon Tarly and Tyrion didn’t need her at Horn Hill to oversee its reconstruction. She could have Drogon destroy the Red Keep with Cersei in it. A sizeable chunk of the Dothraki horde would accompany her and hold the city for her until reinforcements from Dragonstone arrived.

Tyrion found the plan amusing. He dismissed it as if it were the whimsical fancies of a stupid child. “Your Grace, I assure you that by the time you return south, you won’t need to burn down the Red Keep. There is a long winter ahead of us, and with Highgarden in our control, the people of King’s Landing will have no food. They’ll storm the Red Keep and do your work for you.”

His nonchalance irked Daenerys.

“Surely you can’t be so sure they’re not getting any food. Your brother, the Kingslayer _still_ resides in Highgarden. Who’s to say he’s not smuggling food to the capital?”

“Jaime thinks Cersei is ill-fitted to rule, same as you do.”

“He’s her brother.” Narrowing her eyes at him, she added, “As are you.”

Her words’ implications hurt him, but she was justified in her thinking. The ties of blood were said to be the strongest of all earthly bonds. If Rhaegar had been alive, she would have been loyal to him till her last breath.

For his part, Tyrion made no effort to clear her doubts. He simply repeated his opinion: Cersei would be her own undoing. Removing her with dragonfire would only make her a martyr.

After their conversation, Tyrion made himself as scarce as possible. He spent most of his days surveying the progress up on Horn Hill with the younger Tarly, and returned to camp late at night. Daenerys tried to make conversation with Missandei, but she couldn’t help but sense that her confidant seemed removed. She suspected it had something to do with Greyworm’s absence, but Missandei showed no desire to speak of it. Daenerys didn’t press her. How could she, when she herself could not admit to yearning for Jon Snow?

To distract herself from the handsome northman and her loneliness, Daenerys took in a young girl from Horn Hill named Marzena. The girl served her while sharing local tastes and customs with her. When prodded, she also informed her of what the smallfolk thought of her and her efforts to rebuild their homes. The girl’s reports flattered Daenerys very much.

Some ten days had passed since Jon Snow departed for Old Town. Daenerys was enjoying a board game with little Marzena in her tent when one of the Dothraki patrols informed her they’d captured a rogue scout. Daenerys ordered he be checked for weapons and brought to her.

The man they dragged in certainly didn’t look like a scout. He wore long, humble but well-tailored robes, had slick black hair that had gone white at the temples, and a carefully groomed mustache. He was by no means remarkable to look at, but an unsettling glint in his eyes made Daenerys feel like he had just read all her secrets.

Feeling out of place, Marzena scuttled behind a screen to the side of the tent.

“My men tell me that you are a spy,” Daenerys said.

“Far from, your Grace,” the man replied. His confident smile made Daenerys’ skin crawl. “I am but a humble merchant on my way to make a sale. My name is Petyr Baelish.”

“I’ve heard that name before. I believe from Lord Varys. You were the usurper’s master of coin, were you not?”

“Your Grace has a fine memory. Indeed, I did work for Robert Baratheon. But I’ve since turned my attentions to the more straightforward business of trade.”

Daenerys’ lips stretched out in a threatening smile. “Tell me, Lord Baelish, why I shouldn’t have you burnt alive for spying on me for Cersei Lannister.”

“Well for one, you’d be doing her bidding by killing me. I suppose Lord Varys didn’t tell you that I helped her son’s murderer escape capture a few years ago. We’re not on the best of terms, she and I.”

Sitting back in her seat, Daenerys drummed her fingers on the armrest of her seat and considered him. “And what is it exactly that you are in the business of trading?”

“Right now? Dragonglass weapons, your Grace. Crafted by the smiths of Asshai, ready for use.”

Daenerys’ fingers stilled. “You were heading to Winterfell?”

“To Highgarden, actually. Winterfell, while rich in strength and honor, is poor in gold and silver. Olenna Tyrell knew the Lady of Winterfell. I thought perhaps she’d like to do the noble thing and help her old acquaintance defeat the living dead.”

Daenerys thought of Jon; how grateful he would be if they’d acquired even more dragonglass than they’d estimated.

“As it so happens…” Daenerys said slowly, untangling the details in her mind. “...my army is headed north. We can take the dragonglass off your hands.”

“That’s very kind of you, Your Grace, but the cargo is still in port at Sunspear. I was hoping to strike a deal with Olenna Tyrell first, then make the exchange at Sunspear.”

“Name your price then, and I will have it sent for.”

An embarrassed look came over his features. “Your Grace, I would much rather…”

“Is there a reason you don’t wish to sell your dragonglass to me, Lord Baelish? Do you wish to get it to the Kingslayer so he can bring it to his sister? Is that why you must go to Highgarden?”

“Forty-five thousand gold dragons.”

Daenerys balked at him.

“That is my price, your Grace,” he said with an apologetic bow. “I have travelled long and far, spent copious amounts of resources—“

“Do you know what I did to dishonest traders across the narrow sea, Lord Baelish?” Daenerys snapped.

“Believe me, your Grace, if it were in my power to lower the price, I would.” His perfectly erect posture crumbled with humility. “I have workers to pay, passage payments to complete, debts to strike from my ledger.” He searched for more excuses, but he seemed to have exhausted all of them. “Perhaps—perhaps, I can give you something else in addition to the dragonglass. Something invaluable.”

Daenerys scoffed. “And what might that be?”

“Information. Yes, vital information that could be your undoing.”

 _A Lannister ploy_. Daenerys was sure of it, but she needed to hear the words.

“Well? What is it?”

“With due respect, your Grace,” Lord Baelish bowed again, “I would’nt be a very good tradesman if I parted with it before receiving my payment.”

Daenerys thought to threaten him again, but he was no good to her dead. She ordered Marzena to fetch her some parchment and a quill. Requesting Lady Tyrell to have forty-five thousand gold dragons sent to Sunspear, she sealed the scroll, and ordered one of the Dothraks in attendance to find a rider to take it to Highgarden.

“I hope your information is as invaluable as you say, Lord Baelish,” Daenerys said coldly. “If not…it’s been some time since I’ve allowed my dragons to burn living flesh.”

Lord Baelish’s responding laugh was gracious. “It is to do, in some capacity, with your deceased brother, Rhaegar.”

Daenerys’s brows furrowed.

“You must know he fell in love with Lyanna Stark, and the two eloped. There was quite the furor because of it.”

“There were rumors, but I’d not heard of such a union.”

“On paper perhaps, no. But there is proof, in the form of a _living_ child, your Grace. A boy, if I’m not mistaken.”

 _Another Targaryen._ The brief burst of joy within Daenerys immediately turned ashen. _Another contender for the throne._

Keeping her panic at bay, she said, “And—where is he now?”

“Well, it was long speculated that he was smuggled north of the Wall to be raised by a brother of the Night’s Watch turned wildling by the name of Mance Rayder. A fine plan, seeing that if he stayed beyond the Wall he posed no threat to Robert and his spawn, nor to you for that matter. But when Jon Snow let the wildlings south of the Wall, he unwittingly allowed the last living male heir of House Targaryen passage into the realm once more.”

“But this is all speculation. You can’t be sure. If he was indeed a Targaryen, people would’ve recognized him. They would’ve killed him.”

“It is my understanding that he took after his mother, Lyanna, which made it quite easy to blend in. Again, I wasn’t sure of the legitimacy of the rumors up until very recently. You see, it seems that the wildling boy has produced a son. A bastard he may be, but a bastard whose features are unmistakably Targaryen.”

The tent, Lord Baelish, the Dothraki guard—they all swirled before Daenerys.

“But there’s more, your Grace. The child’s mother is none other than Sansa Stark.”

A child with a key to both the north and the Iron Throne. Her life’s work nothing but a cruel jest by the gods.

_No._

_NO!_

She would not hand over her life’s work to a child for something as trifling as a birthright. The Iron Throne had been her life’s purpose. It belonged to _her._ She had done too much, come too far to forfeit now. She would do whatever it took to secure the Iron Throne. Dismissing Lord Baelish, she put her mind to task. Her decision was made within the hour.

Without consulting either Tyrion or Missandei, she deployed a small band of her mainland troops north under the pretense of sending Winterfell reinforcements ahead of the rest of her forces. Taking aside one of the Unsullied generals going, Daenerys gave him her instructions under the strictest confidence:

“Find Sansa Stark’s lover, and kill him. Their son too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!! Thank you for coming back after 4+ months (Not that anyone's asking but I came down with a tropical viral flu a few months ago and the lengthy recovery period triggered my anxiety to the nth degree. I'm better now though so yay!!). All things said and done, I hope this chapter was worth the wait!


	25. Mother's Shadow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Unsullied arrive at Winterfell. Daenerys muses over the future she can have with Jon.

Jon spent the night tossing and turning, fretting over Sansa. His inability to sleep and slip into Ghost’s skin only irritated him further. It had been over nine moons since he’d left Winterfell. Either he already had a babe of his own, or his wife was dead.

 _No, not my Sansa._ Sansa was strong. Her mother had given birth to five healthy Starks.

 _But your babe isn’t a Stark, Snow._ His mother, Lyanna had sacrificed her life bringing him into the world. _What if Sansa’s destined to share the same fate?_

He was lost. Adrift on a pointless mission along an unending road. Sansa was the only end he saw. His anchor. Without her, none of it mattered.

The following evening at Sam and Gilly’s, Sam gave him a number of books to begin his research. They were mostly Targaryen histories. A few were weapons manuals. Texts on the wildfire, Sam said, were housed in the restricted section. He needed more time to find them and ‘borrow’ them without getting caught.

Jon spent the next few days pouring over the texts. He kept a quill and parchment handy to take notes, but didn’t take many. He was no scholar. After spending days trying to decipher Targaryen histories, he decided he never wanted to be one either. The arduous labor did bear some fruit though. Jon learned that a blind dragon was as good as dead, and he learned they were susceptible to weirwood. The surest way to kill a dragon, however, was another dragon.

 _Rhaegal_. That night, he flew in his dreams.

The weapons manuals revealed a few defensive options Jon considered useful. The ballista had a wider range than any crossbow. They could also be engineered to launch flame pots out into the distance. Stakes driven into the ground— _they could be made with dragonglass tips_ —could slow the encroachment of whitewalkers. An inept artist, Jon marked the pages and asked Gilly to make copies of the diagrams for the future.

While he found plenty of defensive measures the realm could implement, nothing he read hinted at what could defeat the Night King. Generation after generation remembered the Night King and the Others as mere ghouls to scare children into behaving. There were no histories detailing their defeat. They entered and left stories as their tellers saw fit.

About a sennight into his stay, Sam came home one evening looking deathly pale. The Citadel had received a raven from Winterfell. Jon stilled. _It’s happened, then. She’s dead._ He was mistaken. There was no mention of Sansa or a child. The raven carried news of the Night King. He was headed for Eastwatch.

“There’s no returning to Winterfell, then,” Jon sighed. He exchanged a knowing look with Sam. This was it: the Great War.

Soon it was time to go. The citadel had cleared Ser Jorah Mormont of greyscale and the Dothraki were growing agitated. Jon handed over what little he had noted down—mostly book names and page numbers—to Sam and took his leave.

“Hold on a minute,” Sam said, feigning cheer to veil his sorrow. “I’ve got something for you.”

He cleared a trunk’s top of various trinkets and hoisted the lid up by the latch. Jon spotted the old horn Ghost and he had found at the Fist of the First Men as Sam scooped up an elongated object wrapped in skins.

“Heartsbane, my father called it,” Sam said. His face reddened from the strain of holding up the sword to Jon. “Valyrian steel. It’ll be of use to you.”

Jon lowered the sword, and placed an affectionate hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Ride for Winterfell as soon as you’re able. If I fail, it’ll be up to you to protect both our families.” He gave Gilly and wee Sam a melancholy smile.

Overcome with emotion, Sam flung his arms around Jon. “I suppose it’s goodbye then. Until we meet again, brother. In this life or the next, aye?”

There was no next life. Jon hugged his friend back.

***

Sansa sat nestled in her dark hole. The smell of damp but fresh wood wafted from the walls enclosing her. Outside, the night wind howled. It tapped against her, tried to break past her defenses, but she was cloaked in something light and thick. She didn’t feel cold at all.

The Wolfswood stretched out below her, swathed in cottony snow. A fox’s strangled bark issued from somewhere in the darkness. Sansa responded with a low ululation from the base of her throat. Soon, others from neighboring trees joined her in a chorus. The fox showed itself, its coat of fur a flaming red against the white snow. It exchanged greetings with its companions overhead, with Sansa. Though she didn’t understand what it said, Sansa could tell the exchange was friendly.

When the creature had done with the formality— _surely the animal realm abides to such things too_ —it pranced back into the thick of the woods.

Sansa remained huddled in her hole and watched the woods in its still splendor. Curiosity eventually got the best of her; she shuffled to the edge of the hole and poked her head out. Uttering a louder, more high pitched ululation, she pushed herself off the threshold, into the air. Long, white wings stretched out to her sides, catching the wind in their feathers, and maneuvering it to keep her adrift. Forward it took her. Higher. The woods floated past her as she continued swimming in night’s dark blue. The snow below illuminated her path.

“You will fly too,” a faint voice said. She slowed down. The wind carried the words to her ears again. “You will fly too.”

Eyes blinking open, Sansa drifted into consciousness as seamlessly as she had fallen asleep. She lay on her stomach. Her right hand dipped into Robb’s crib where he clenched his fist around her finger, and made sucking noises in his sleep. The sight brought a lazy grin to Sansa’s sleepy face.

_You will fly too._

Arya lay asleep beside her, body tense and brows knit in concentration. She resembled a predator stalking her prey. _The names on her list, no doubt_. Whatever it was she dreamed of, she was asleep. Sansa knew it wasn’t Arya she had heard. There was only one person who could penetrate her dreams like that.

Pulling on a heavy cloak, some woolen stockings, and a pair of slippers, Sansa made her way to Bran’s chambers.

Grateful as she was for her brother’s safe return, the man who arrived at Winterfell with the Night’s Watch was a mere shell of the lively, cheerful Bran of her childhood. A harder woman would have prepared herself; Rickon _had_ told her his abilities were strange. But every one of them had changed in some way during their time away, herself included. With Rickon and Arya, she had managed to draw morsels of their old selves out from hiding. Bran however—she wasn’t sure the old Bran even existed anymore.

She checked on Rickon on her way to Bran’s. He was asleep, looking as carefree as wee Robb. _Winterfell won’t ever be the castle of my childhood again_ , Sansa thought, _At least it’s a home where children may live out their childhoods once more. Others be damned._

The guard assigned to Bran’s chambers for the night met her halfway down the corridor. “My lady,” he bowed, “Master Bran sent me to fetch you.”

A startled chuckle escaped Sansa. “I was just on my way.”

Bran was propped up in a sitting position in bed. Whether he had slept a wink all night, Sansa could not say.

“Hello, Sansa.” His voice was flat, devoid of any emotion.

“You know, I’m quite certain people will find you intruding their dreams very rude.” Sansa took a seat at his bedside.

“I was on the King’s Road,” Bran said, eyes glazed. “The night Cersei Lannister forced father’s hand, and he killed Lady.”

Sansa inhaled sharply.

“You lost a part of yourself that night. Lost hope. But then I saw you—back here in the north, as one with the land you swore to protect.” After a moment, he added, “You were an owl.”

He saw Sansa’s confusion. “All of us…we had it with the direwolves. I had it with Summer. Arya shares it with Nymeria, Rickon with Shaggydog, and Jon with Ghost. But you…”

“Lady was taken from me.”

“You will fly too.”

Sansa waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing. “Does that mean what I saw today…it was actually happening?”

“If I’d advise you one thing, it would be to stay cautious. You may not like everything you see when you’ve warged.”

 _Just like Bran might not like everything he sees—like the Night King._ Since returning home, he had not told her what he had seen besides the white walkers marching to Eastwatch. Ravens had been sent as far as Dorne, but the answering nobles refused to send assistance without further details.

“Bran, where is he now? The Night King, I mean.”

“He’s stalling. But he’s recruiting all the same: man, bears, mountain lions, giants—anything he can get his hands on. But…”

“But what?”

“I can’t say for sure.” Brans brows furrowed. “It’s not numbers he’s after. He’s looking for something more powerful. He’s—he’s concerned his defenses will be weak without it, I think.”

“Something that’s hidden?” Sansa didn’t know how his greensight worked, but she wanted to do all she could to help. Provide him a starting point for his search. “Like a treasure of some kind?”

Cocking his head to the side, Bran considered. After some time, he straightened his neck and took a deep breath. “Could be.”

His dark pupils rolled to the back of his head, tilting his neck back with it. Frightened by the sudden stillness possessing him, Sansa squeezed her palms together. Bran had been back half a moon’s turn. She had seen him slip in and out of his visions a few times in that short period, but it didn’t make bearing witness to such strangeness any easier. She waited, rocking back and forth, for what seemed an eternity.

A labored intake of breath announced his return to the present. Sansa poured him a goblet of water.

Taking a sip, Bran leaned back against the headboard. He had about him the look of someone trying to piece a puzzle together. “The last three-eyed raven…he’d tasked Uncle Benjen with hiding an ancient war horn. Auruch, I think, banded with bronze. Only it was broken when Jon found it.”

“J-Jon?” Sansa gulped. “You think the Night King is looking for Jon?”

Ignoring her, Bran continued his train of thought. “Jon gave the horn to a brother of the Night’s Watch who is now in Old Town.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? If the horn’s all the way in Old Town, the Night King’s unlikely to get his hands on it.”

“It can’t stay in Old Town. It belongs in the North. That’s how the old Three-Eyed Raven intended it.”

Sansa pursed her lips in irritation. “Why would the Three-Eyed Raven risk keeping the horn a stone’s throw away from the Night King?”

“Perhaps it’s not what the Night King is looking for at all. I can’t always help what I see.”

Grabbing hold of Bran’s cold hand, Sansa gave it an urgent squeeze. “Bran, we don’t have much time. Jon’s life, the fate of the North…it may all depend on what help you can give.” Again, she waded through her thoughts in search of something to help him. “You say you were on the King’s Road the night Lady died. Can you go back further, long before our time, or father’s, or grandfather’s?”

Shoulders slumped, Bran sighed from weariness.  

“If the stories are true, the first men and the children of the forest defeated the Night King once. You need to find out how they did it.”

He shook his head. “I’ve never ventured that far back.”

“Bran, please. We need you to focus.”

His annoyance was palpable. He grew so stiff that, were it not for the gritting of his teeth, Sansa would’ve thought he’d slipped into one of his trances again. When he finally broke his silence, he simply said, “I’d like to sleep now.”

Sansa left his chambers. She did not regret pressuring her brother. He had lived on his own a long time and had likely forgotten what caring for family and doing one’s duty entailed. Without proper guidance, he would continue to let his mind wander aimlessly. _He’ll understand in due time,_ Sansa assured herself. She prayed her sharp words didn’t cause his aloofness to deteriorate into resentment.

Come morning, her flight through the Wolfswood and conversation with Bran seemed a dream. She was naught but Lady of Winterfell and mother to Robb Snow. About the castle, the new barracks and communal quarters were being given finishing touches, a sizeable supply of grain had arrived from the Vale with a small detachment of soldiers, and men and women alike were growing more capable wielding arms with every passing day. Sansa saw to every decision, and attended to everyone’s complaints—noble and peasant alike—with the same care.

Her little violet-eyed prince, Robb, endeared himself to everyone Sansa allowed near him. At near three moons old, he beamed on seeing familiar faces and pouted incredulously when they left. He answered Sansa’s gentle coos with enthusiastic gurgles and insisted on being seated on her lap when she worked on her correspondences. Near sundown, when most of the servants and guards were off preparing for dinner, Sansa allowed Hrorik and Rickon to walk him about the castle grounds.

Though she should have spent that time working, Sansa could not help watch them from the gallery; how Robb would wrinkle is nose at first contact with the chill, but eventually get acclimatized to it. She wished it were Jon who took him on these evening walks instead of Hrorik. She wished Jon could see how wonderful their son was. Still, everything considered, Robb was a very lucky babe for Sansa could not imagine a more loving family for her son.

Given the smooth progress of their plans and the comfort of a well-ordered life, Sansa started to believe they could see this winter through. Live to see the spring. Her faith was as resolute as ever the day the tides turned.

She had just finished nursing Robb when a gentle knock sounded at the nursery door and Hrorik’s bashful face popped through a crack in the door.

“It’s me, good lady.”

Checking the ties on her dress, Sansa cheerily said, “Yes, Hrorik, come in.”

The wildling boy stepped over the threshold but didn’t venture any further.

“I just put Robb to sleep, but you’re most welcome to stay until he wakes.” Sansa smiled. “The sweet boy enjoys all the attention he can get…much like his namesake before him.”

Hrorik’s eyes were cast down. He nervously picked at something on his palm.

Sensing his discomfort, Sansa tried to fill the silence. “I must go attend to household matters, but Val is due to come any moment.”

Still nothing.

“Hrorik, what’s wrong?”

“Wrong?” he asked, a quizzical look on his face. “Oh nothing’s wrong. It’s just—something—I was thinking of asking something of ye.”

“Well?” Sansa found his coyness rather amusing.

“Thing is, good lady, I dinna think I sh—shoul’ be comin’ over, keepin’ such close relations with you or wee Robb any longer.”

It was Sansa’s turn to look quizzical, hurt even. Robb adored Hrorik and his stories. “Have we given any offense, Hrorik?”

“Offense? Oh, no, no!” Hrorik blushed. “It’s just that…Well you see, there’s a lass down at Wintertown and…I’d very much like to steal her.”

Sansa sighed in relief. “Hrorik, that’s wonderful!” After a moment’s thought, she added, “Although if she’s of Wintertown, I don’t think her family will take kindly to you ‘stealing’ her.”

A boyish grin lit up Hrorik’s face. “You understand, then? I canna exactly go on bein’ wee Robb’s father if I am to—to wed her, as you say.”

“I completely understand, Hrorik. You’ve done my family a great favor and I’ll do whatever I can to convince this girl’s family to let her marry you.”

“You’d really do that for me?” Hrorik’s eyes widened. He seemed ready to burst with joy. “Good lady, I promise I’ll never betray yer trust. I’ll never tell anyone that I was just a mummer. You have m’ word.”

“That’s very kind of you, Hrorik. I would never expect any less of you.”

“I—uh—I guess I’ll be saying farewell to him, then.”

He crossed the nursery to the crib beside Sansa and admired the sleeping babe. Laughing, he said, “His nose is bulging out jus’ like his da’s.”

“I know,” Sansa replied in mock resignation. “I carry him inside me for nine moons and he ends up taking after his father. The nerve of the little rascal.”

“Ah, it’s no matter, good lady. He may look like his da but a babe’s but the reflection of his mother’s shadow. So we say among us free folk, at least.”

Something in his words struck a chord with Sansa. She almost felt like weeping. “Hrorik, that’s lovely! You’re a true poet, you know? Would you ever consider writing your verses down? For posterity’s sake?”

Uttering an incredulous chuckle, Hrorik said, “I dinna know how to write, good lady.”

“I’m sure Maester Ruhskin could take you on as a pupil. Please.”

“You really think—I could?”

“I think it’s essential you do. We need you after the Long Night. A poet’s quill is just as powerful as a knight’s sword.”

Hrorik nodded as he came around to the idea. “Thank you, good lady. I’d like that very much.”

“Don’t thank me. Consider us even. Now, go and tell this girl you love her. Oh, and for my sake, please ask her father for her hand before stealing her.”

After Hrorik left, Sansa tarried behind to admire Robb. She tried to memorize every detail of his innocent face at that moment. He was changing every day. Soon he would be wielding a sword and riding off to war like his father. “Will you truly be anything like me?” she asked her sleeping son.

A horn’s reverberating blast startled her out of the trance her son had her in. Another followed. It came from the East gate.

 _Jon._ But then, _No, it can’t be him._

Robb stirred with a moan. An irritated crease appeared on his forehead. Pushing out his bottom lip, his mouth yawned into a shrill scream. Eyes darting from her squawking babe to the door, Sansa thanked the Gods when Val arrived to relieve her.

Rushing downstairs, out of the family quarters, past curious and excited servants, Sansa arrived at the East Gate to find the guards’ swords drawn on the visitors.

They were not of Westoros, these visitors. Slender in frame and dark of skin, their formation was impeccable despite their travels. Their armor bore no coat of arms or personal embellishment. Despite showing no desire to retaliate with their spears, their visors were pulled over their faces, shielding their identities and intentions.

There were only fifteen of them. Sansa ordered the guards stand down. Accompanied by Maester Ruhskin, she engaged in dialogue. The men knew enough of the Common Tongue to communicate. They had come to the aid of Winterfell by Queen Daenerys Targeryen’s orders. They were to remain there and do Lady Sansa’s bidding while their brothers accompanied their queen and Lord Jon Snow to the Wall.

“Fifteen men,” Maester Ruhskin remarked wryly once he and Sansa were out of earshot of the Unsullied. “Fifteen ill-attired men with no weapon but the common spear and few daggers. For the sake of the realm, my lady, I hope the numbers headed for the Wall aren’t as disheartening.”

***

Rhaegal’s prolonged absence was the first sign Jon was coming back. If he had just gone on a hunt, he would have returned to Daenerys sooner.

She had begun thinking Lord Snow had betrayed her. Killed the Dothraki escort and fled to Winterfell. She was tempted to visit Old Town atop Drogon, but it was too risky leaving Tyrion to his own devices. His aloofness since Horn Hill irked her. He must have noticed she had sent a detachment of Unsullied away, yet he said nothing. She trusted him less for it every day.

The prospect of seeing Jon Snow again tingled her skin. The fevered frustration festering inside her all those lonely days slowly dissipated. She felt something akin to hope, and dare she admit it, happiness. When she heard Rhaegal’s call from the south-western horizon one fine day, she brimmed with it and broke from her queen’s mould, if only for a moment.

To her surprise, Lord Snow brought company—an old friend. Ser Jorah. He looked well.

On arriving at camp, Ser Jorah knelt before her. “If it pleases you, Khaleesi, I am your servant.”

“Rise, old friend,” Daenerys said. “There will always be a place for you at my side.”

Formalities done with, she pulled him into a hug. She had not felt so cherished in a long time. For the first time since making landfall at Dragonstone, she felt she was home.

From the corner of her eyes, she spotted Jon Snow looking away. In jealousy, no doubt. Her smile brightened.

“Rhaegal was beginning to think you’d never return,” she jested when she withdrew from Ser Jorah.

A smile tugged at Jon Snow’s lips. “I doubt there’s anything that could keep a dragon from what it wants.”

Stumped, Daenerys bowed her head in welcome and turned away before he saw her blush.

Jon Snow’s travels, according to him, had been a success. Samwell Tarly deemed her actions justified and bore her no ill-will. Jon Snow explained he was delayed because he had waited for the Citadel to release Ser Jorah from its care. He thought it fortunate; not only could Ser Jorah come with him, they now also had news of the Night King’s whereabouts.

“Eastwatch by the sea?” Daenerys said skeptically at her council meeting.

“Aye,” Jon said wearily, “It’s better, really. We can head back to Dragonstone, collect the dragonglass and take your fleet. It’ll be much faster than heading north on land.”

 _And you needn’t know of your bastard nephew’s death._ The possibility had robbed Daenerys of several nights of sleep. She was in the right, she knew that. But Sansa Stark was Jon Snow’s half-sister. In all fairness, he had not shown much fondness towards his half-siblings in the time she knew him. It was likely he’d be upset, but he had no reason to be too upset. The child was a bastard, after all. No doubt, forced upon his sister by an uncouth wildling against her will. Jon Snow would not sever ties with her for so paltry a piece in the grander game.

Still, she feared. For Jon Snow was a man of honor and duty.

It was the one quality she admired most about him. Ser Jorah loved her unconditionally, but he was old and his reputation was soiled by his past exploits. Jon Snow was young, grounded, and a mirror image of her. He was her equal. They made a formidable pair together. With him, she felt invincible.

She sometimes wondered if this sensation of feeling complete was what it felt like to have one’s own. A real family. With Ser Jorah and Jon returned to her, and Tyrion returning to his old self again, she felt like she was exactly where she was meant to be. Home.

Daenerys basked in the comfortable, yet often charged, amity she shared with Jon Snow as they headed back to the Dornish port. She shuddered to think of what would happen when she finally had her throne. Jon Snow would pledge his allegiance to her but his duties would take him back North. Away from her.

On contemplating, she realized Jon Snow needn’t be bound to the north. He was a bastard. It would be his younger brother, Rickon who inherited the title of Lord of Winterfell, not him. That meant Jon Snow could stay in King’s Landing with her. He would insist on bringing his wife, Alayne to reside there, of course. She had thought even of that. Generations of Targaryens had taken more than one wife. She could simply honor the tradition. _I would welcome a sister-wife with all my heart_.

So Daenerys set sail for Dragonstone with a dream greater than the Iron Throne—that of a family.

But the promise of a rosy future shriveled and rotted away the moment she set foot on Dragonstone. Only a handful of Dothraki were present to greet her on the shore. Lord Varys, who she had left on the island to supervise the mining of the dragonglass, had disappeared. In his absence, the Dothraki had halted their mining efforts.

Tyrion bore the brunt of her wrath.

“Where is he?”

He stumbled back, bemused by the news himself. “I assure you, your Grace, I have no idea.”

“I should’ve known better,” Daenerys spat. “Once a traitor, always a traitor. He’s informing your sister of my numbers.”

“I may not know where he is, but I can tell you that the Spider cares for the realm too much to treat with Cersei.”

“Yes, you would say that.” Daenerys’ voice remained steady in spite of her desire to scream. “Turn the ship around and ready the Dothraki. We head for King’s Landing at dawn.”

“But…your Grace!”

“Drogon!”

The gargantuan creature swooped over them, before flipping round his middle and landing behind Daenerys. He bore his sword-like teeth at Tyrion.

“You were saying, Lord Tyrion?” Daenerys said, raising a brow in challenge.

Tyrion’s upturned lips parted in a sigh. “We sail at dawn.”

Standing statuesque as he waddled past her and Drogon to give the orders, Daenerys caught Jon Snow and his retinue pushing their row boat back into the water.

“Stop! Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded at the top of her lungs.

Shoulders slumped and knee-deep in water, Jon Snow wheeled around to face her. “You’ll forgive me, my queen, but it’s high time I return north. You can give me neither dragonglass nor dragons, but I must do my duty.”  

 _My queen._ They called him the king of the north. And she was _his_ queen. The joyous future she had imagined for them both flitted before her eyes. She had not even made him the offer yet. But she knew his true nature well enough. Power would not seduce him. Not yet. Not until he saw her on the Iron Throne. Only dragonglass and dragons would keep him at her side now.

To Eastwatch they would sail, then.

***

The new residents of Winterfell were greeted with suspicion. Though they did not appear amiable, they blended into the castle’s bustling tapestry. They offered to help the workmen, took no liberties with the women, and seemed to take an interest in northern governance, particularly in House Stark. In time, the people of Winterfell and Wintertown, Starks included, set aside their reservations about the Unsullied. _Only a fool turns away a helping hand in times like these._

The gold Sansa had requested from Willas to pay the Skagosi finally arrived. A mere day after its arrival, she received a raven from him. According to him, Daenerys Targaryen had ordered Lady Tyrell to pay Littlefinger a sum of forty-five thousand gold dragons in exchange for both raw and treated dragonglass. The transaction was to take place at Sunspear, from whence the cargo would go straight to Dragonstone. Willas had written Sansa to ask if she deemed Littlefinger’s offer legitimate.

The hairs on the back of Sansa’s neck stood up on reading the letter. Not only had Littlefinger, to her chagrin, returned to Westoros, he was now poised to acquire the leverage he needed to persuade the Iron Bank to sever ties with Cersei. And it had been she who had suggested he undertake the dragonglass venture. The thought made her stick to the stomach.

Sansa didn’t doubt the legitimacy of Littlefinger’s offer, but she feared its consequences. Whatever they were though: Littlefinger, Cersei, King’s Landing—they weren’t the immediate threat. The Night King was, and Sansa knew they were all as good as dead if she jeopardized Jon’s favor with Daenerys. So, she wrote to Willas, assuring him of Lord Baelish’s honorable reputation.

The raven from Highgarden was succeeded by heads of the northern Houses. They had heard of the Unsullieds’ arrival and wished to see for themselves. Most of them took a stroll about the castle grounds on arriving, observing the Unsullied, making queries about their conduct and combat skills, and, in some cases, even conversing with them. The more patient lords and ladies awaited the assembly in the Great Hall.

The day was like any other; the sky was overcast, yet the stubbornness inherent in northmen—fighting to live in such bleak conditions—fueled the air with something resembling joy. Sansa nursed Robb in the nursery and made faces at him to watch him smile at her gleefully. When Val arrived with Ghost in tow, she kissed him and headed to the Library Tower to collect Rickon from his lessons with Maester Ruhskin.

She found her little brother scratching something onto a piece of parchment. His head was bowed so low, his nose almost brushed the ink. He didn’t bother so much as glancing her way when she entered.

“Lady Sansa,” said Maester Ruhskin, “might I be so bold to suggest Master Rickon not attend the assembly today? I have set him the task of learning every name in the Stark family tree—a task, I’m afraid, proving to be very difficult.”

“Oh, that’s no matter,” Sansa said. “I dare say a lordling should know his history if he isn’t going to repeat its mistakes. Aren’t I right, Rickon?”

“Mmh,” Rickon grunted. His tongue stuck out ever so slightly in concentration.

Sansa whirled around and headed to the Great Hall. Arya was already seated at the head table. The house heads were stiff as they waited for proceedings to begin. They discreetly eyed the attending Unsullied General, Boar Snout, and his three companions. The foreigners seemed unaffected by the scrutiny and showed no desire to reciprocate. Sansa had invited them to the Great Hall to give the northerners an opportunity to get to know them. She only hoped her men took care not to speak ill of the Mad King’s daughter in front of them.

Assembly commenced. Formal introductions were made and the Unsullied were asked about Daenerys Targaryen’s southern campaign, the size of her troops, and why she had not sent more men. Though Boar Snout’s responses were not entirely satisfactory, they were acceptable. There were more pressing concerns requiring their immediate attention.

Fortifications across the north had aroused fear and panic among the small folk. There were reports of mass exoduses to Skagos and the Iron Islands, and innumerable drownings as a result. Valuable grain and game was lost the process. More men were required to man the shores to put an end to this. The request sent a chorus of incredulous jeers through the Great Hall. _If it’s death by sea they want, let em’ have it. Death is coming for us all._ Grunts of agreement ensued. A lone voice would try to appeal to the compassion that separated man from beast, but it would get lost in the sea of gruff, unyielding dismissals.

Sansa let the heated discourse continue in the hope a palatable solution would present itself. The loss of life was no small matter. _They will love me,_ she had once promised herself. _I’m not Cersei._ But to post patrols along the coasts would only further strain their already limited means. There seemed to be no way to strike a balance.

Her mind scrambling for the correct course of action, Sansa didn’t notice Maester Ruhskin enter. His worn face was unreadable, but the wails of the wildling women who followed were reason enough to be concerned. The animated discussion in the hall dimmed to perplexed murmurs. Sansa looked at Arya, seeing her own reflected in her sister’s face.

“Maester Ruhskin,” Sansa said, straining her voice to be heard over the frenzy, “what’s the meaning of this?”

“A most troubling matter, my lady. Requiring immediate attention. It seems one of the Unsullied got into a row with the Wildlings.”

“It was no row!” A wildling woman named, Hedwig stepped forward. “It was murder! Show them!”

A brawny wildling man, Eirik, pushed past the gathered wildlings, carrying the bloodied and lifeless body of Hrorik. Sansa sprang to her feet and uttered a strangled cry. Her entire being warred between the urge to run to the boy’s corpse, and scream in fury. She could do neither. She just watched, frozen, as Eirik lay Hrorik down before the head table.

“What—“ Sansa hissed. “What is the meaning of this?”

The question was directed at Boar Snout. He offered no answer.

“I’m afraid that in an attempt to seek justice, the wildlings took it upon themselves to execute the perpetrator without trial.”

Boar Snout narrowed his eyes at this. “My men do not kill for sport,” declared the general. He and his men drew daggers from their belts. “You betray our alliance in killing without cause.”

“Put them away, you fool!” Lord Glover drew his sword. The other armed lords followed.

“We do not take orders from you,” Boar Snout replied, unflinching.

Frightened shrieks and war cries ensued as steel clashed against steel. The Unsullied may have been outnumbered, but they were much faster than the northmen, and had no concern for the safety of the women in attendance. Arya leapt over the head table, Needle in hand, and rushed into the thick of the fighting to get the unarmed to safety. Try as she did to put an end to the fighting, there was no reasoning with the north’s hatred for anything to do with the Mad King.

Sansa remained stock-still through it all, looking down at Hrorik’s body. It seemed unreal. That good-natured face that had made her sweet child laugh, now caked in blood from the slit in his throat. The world around Sansa swirled. Her legs grew feeble. And she would have all but fallen if Maester Ruhskin had not grabbed hold of her.

“My lady, it’s not safe for you here.”

“No—“ Sansa said feebly, as she was dragged further and further away from Hrorik’s body. “No.”

Maester Ruhskin pulled her out of the Great Hall, into a pitch black passageway. It was narrow, fitted with steep, slippery ramps instead of stairs.

“It is not safe for you, my lady. There is a dubious plot unfurling inside the castle.”

Hearing the elderly man panting, Sansa relieved him of her weight and began climbing on her own. “You mean to say Hrorik wasn’t killed in a hapless row?”

Maester Ruhskin maintained his grip on her arm. “No. The Unsullied soldier who killed him is dead. The general and his three men are in the Great Hall. The remaining eleven Unsullied are unaccounted for. I fear they’ve slipped into the castle.”

“Robb! Maester Ruhskin, I need to—“

“Master Robb has Val and Ghost with him. It is you and Master Rickon I’m more concerned about.”

“But Rickon was in the library tower.”

“I had the foresight to move him to safety before.”

There was no way of knowing where Maester Ruhskin was taking Sansa. She reckoned they were up two levels by now. Her thighs ached from the climb, but her head throbbed even more. _Why would they kill Hrorik?_ The Unsullied—Daenerys—had no quarrel with the wildlings. And from the news she received, Jon had become a trusted ally to Daenerys. There was no reason to attack an innocent wildling and the House Stark, unless…

_Unless…_

Sansa tried to wring her arm free from Maester Ruhskin’s grip. “Maester, I need to go to Robb.”

“We’re almost there, my lady. Just a few more steps.”

“MAESTER RUHSKIN!”

“Silence!” Maester Ruhskin snapped. “You and Master Rickon are no good to your son dead, you understand? Now, I will go send further reinforcements to retrieve Master Robb as soon as I’ve seen you to safety. I made an oath to serve House Stark. Now, you must let me do my duty.”

Sansa wanted to protest further but she didn’t have the breath. Ahead, blinding white light streamed into the dark passage from a door half blocked with snow. She and Maester Ruhskin burrowed through it to climb onto a balcony to the north-east of Winterfell. It’s ceiling, Sansa realized, was the floor to the castle battlements.

On finding his footing and breath, Maester Ruhskin whistled a long note into the still winter air. An answering whistle sounded from nearby. Edging towards the parapet, Sansa looked to the sky for the creature that uttered the sound. When she spotted nothing, she looked below.

A wagon packed with hay, its covering canvas removed, stood by the castle wall. Beside it, there was a man in a heavy grey cloak looking up at her. Dreading flooding through her veins, Sansa backed away.

“Maester,” she said softly, hiding the tremors in her voice, “how did you come to know of the Unsullied plot?”

“Forgive me, Lady Stark,” was the last thing Sansa heard as a firm hand pressed a rag soaked in the sweet scent of summer against her nose, and all turned black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaah! 
> 
> Hello lovely readers! The shit has hiteth the fan. I was really dreading this chapter but I ended up having quite a lot of fun writing it :) As always, thank you for reading!


	26. The Titan and the Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While being held in captivity, Sansa devises a plan to escape.
> 
> TW: A seduction plot involving a NOTP. Gruesome death of one half of said NOTP.

A sharp jolt woke Sansa. Her body bounced and swayed with every lurch and creak of her strange bed. Her lids refused to rise and her body felt heavy. There was pain; a dull sort on her shoulder and hips, and the excruciating kind in her breasts. She was tucked under some heavy furs. Throwing them aside, she ran her fingers over her chest. It was completely soaked in milk.

 _Robb!_ Her heart was on the verge of shattering. _Gods, not him! Not my baby boy!_

Everything came rushing back to her: the assembly, Hrorik’s murder, Maester Ruhskin’s lies, the sweet smelling rag he pressed over her face. Robb was with Val. And Ghost. If anyone were to lay a finger on him, Ghost would’ve ripped that foolish coward’s head off.

_Greywind would’ve done the same for her brother, Robb…if he hadn’t been outnumbered._

She gasped for air. Eyes adjusting to the dark, she felt about. She was lying on generous bales of hay. _The wagon outside Winterfell._ Maester Ruhskin must have pushed her off the balcony. Wheeling her legs around, she crawled towards the flap of the wagon’s canvas and peered out. It was pitch dark with nothing but starlight reflected in the snow to light the wagoner’s way. Bile rose up Sansa’s throat. _Where am I?_

She craned her neck out and emptied her stomach. Head hanging out of the wagon, she let the chilly wind whip her senses alert. The wagoner hadn’t noticed her shuffling about in the back. The path they travelled was padded with snow. It wouldn’t be too difficult to jump off.  But even Arya, with all her training, wouldn’t attempt it at this hour. Not without food and a torch. Sansa had no idea how long she’d been unconscious. They could have been half way to the Wall by now. Not that anybody would cart her off to the Wall. If she was being taking anywhere, it would be south. That’s where Cersei was, and Daenerys…and Littlefinger. _But why?_

Try as she did to pull the veil of deception and intrigue from her mind’s eye, her breasts were ready to burst. She patted her surroundings for a helmet or a ladle or a pot. Nothing. After much hesitation, she reluctantly undid the ties of her dress and pulled one breast free. Cupping one had to the teat, she squeezed the milk out with the other. Relief trickled through her, one squeeze at a time. Relief and grief. She didn’t want to discard the milk. It belonged to her son. _The men who did this will pay._ But she also felt guilty.

After an hour, perhaps two, the wagon slowed to a halt. Outside the canvased enclosure, the wagoner lit a torch. His boots hit the ground and his footsteps came around, toward the canvas’ flap. Sansa became acutely aware of Jon’s dagger strapped to her calf. Tucking her legs underneath her, she buried her hand under her skirts, and rested it upon its hilt.

The face that appeared through the opening was unkempt but genial. “You’re awake are you?”

“Who are you and where are you taking me?”  

“Less talk, more listenin’,” he said, holding the flap open for her. “Down you come, lass.”

“Please…I bear you no ill will. Please, don’t hurt me.”

“Hurt you?” he scoffed. “Not likely. I’ve got a fat purse o’ gold dragons waitin’ for me once I deliver you—pretty as I found you—to the high Lord.”

“A _lord,”_ Sansa repeated, mildly relieved. _Not Cersei._ “Why does he want you to bring me to him?”

The wagoner started to answer before catching himself. “Oi!” His darkened face hinted at a beastly disposition at bay.  “I’m the one doing the talking, you hear? Now get down from there and sit here ‘fore the light where I can keep an eye on you.”

Sansa gave him the once over. _No, he’s too big._ She released her hold on her dagger and climbed out of the wagon.

The wagoner built a small fire and cooked them some gruel in a cooking pot he kept in his saddlebag up front. Once Sansa managed to force the tasteless mush down her throat, he offered her a sip from his waterskin. Then he uncorked another skin and held it out for her. The sweetness of summer wafted up it. Sansa recoiled.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said politely. “You make a formidable warden. I wouldn’t dare flee from someone like you.”

“M’lord warned me you’d have a silver-tongue,” he said smugly. “Said you’d escaped across these lands once before; that you’d a keen eye, and you were slippery as them eels. Drink the damn brew before I shove it down your throat.”

Hands trembling, Sansa lifted the skin to her lips and sipped with trepidation.

“A proper gulp now,” the wagoner said; a thinly veiled threat.

Sansa tipped the skin up a smidge higher. The acrid liquid scorched her throat. It took effect immediately. If she returned the skin to the wagoner, she could not say. Her vision blurred, and her lids slammed shut.

So they carried on for days. During the day, Sansa lay unconscious in the back of the wagon under a heap of furs. Come evenfall, when she woke up, the wagoner gave her some gruel, sometimes some game, let her relieve herself behind the bushes, and then promptly handed her the sleeping drought. From the warming air, she knew they were definitely headed south. But she couldn’t ascertain where they were headed. If they had passed wayfarers on their travels during the day, she could not call out for help. She didn’t so much as know the wagoner’s name.

The pain in her breasts she woke to diminished little by little. As did the flow of milk. Even if she were to, by some miracle, return to Winterfell, she would never share that bond with her son again. The triviality of such sorrow wrung from her a contemptuous laugh. _I’m such a stupid girl! I may not even have a living son anymore._

They had been on the road some three moons; that much Sansa could determine from her brief moments awake. Towards the close of those three moons, they arrived at the marshy terrain of the Neck, answering Sansa’s question about who the wagoner worked for. They were heading back to the Eyrie; to her cousin, Sweet Robyn. To Littlefinger.

Here, she was mistaken. The wagoner headed west instead of east, and they arrived at their destination earlier than she had anticipated. She blinked awake to the wagon wheels rhythmically rattling and squeaking over wet cobblestone. Though it was dark outside, Sansa could make out the enormous silhouette of a tower when she looked out through the canvas’ flap. The further the wagon pulled away from the menacing structure, the more she saw of the river on whose bank it stood sentinel—the Green Fork. A sinking feeling came over her. Another tower awaited at the other end of the bridge; a tower belonging to the stronghold where her mother and brother had been murdered. _The Twins_.

Subdued chatter of smallfolk replaced the eerie silence she’d grown used to in the wilderness as they neared the Freys’ stronghold. Gut instinct insisted Sansa call for help, but she knew how much she resembled her mother, and she knew a similar fate awaited her if she revealed herself.

The wagon drew to a halt. Sansa held her breath, expecting a mob of armed men to grab her, strip her, and parade her about town.

“Tolls are paid over there.”

“I’m here to see Lord Baelish,” the wagoner said.

A wave of relief crashed over Sansa. It _was_ Littlefinger. The same relief gave way to fury.

“You do now, do you?” the guard said. “And what business could the likes of you have with Lord Baelish?”

“Important ‘nuf to rid you of your heads if you don’t let me get his goods to him.”

The wagon jerked forward without further objection from the guard. After a few clumsy turns, the wagon stopped again. The wagoner came around back to help Sansa down. They were at the entrance of a modest stone structure, well-removed from the larger keep in the stronghold. Of the two gaunt maids who greeted them, one ran inside while the other attempted something resembling a curtsy for Sansa.

A short while later, an impeccably erect ghoul clad in grey glided through the dimly lit entrance hall. His footsteps were unhurried and his lips pulled up in a smug grin. It did not suit his newly sprouted white hairs.

“Oh, thank the Seven, you’re here!” Littlefinger said theatrically, arms outstretched towards her. “My dear Alayne! I’ve been so worried.”

Sansa’s stomach turned as he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead.

“You’re not hurt, are you? Gulbrand treated you well?”

 _So the wagoner does have a name._ Sansa looked at her escort. “As well as a kidnapper can treat his quarry.”

Littlefinger nodded sagely and offered her a sympathetic smile. “We have much to talk about. Come, come inside.”

Ordering Gulbrand be given some supper and a room for the night, Littlefinger guided Sansa into a dark and stuffy sitting room.

She had a mind to pummel the wretched man before her, but she hardly had the strength to stand, let alone attack someone. Her queen-like glare was enough to make Littlefinger fumble on his words, though.

“I understand you’re cross with me, Sansa, but know that—“

“Cross doesn’t even begin to describe how I feel, Lord Baelish. How dare you? How dare you spy on my family? You profess your love for me, yet you snatch me from my home after everything I’ve been through.”

“Sansa—“

“You promise to protect me, yet you bring me into enemy lands a sitting duck.”

“Sansa—“

“If you ever cared for anyone besides yourself, you’d know what you’ve stolen from me. You’d understand what it means to rip a suckling babe from his mother’s embrace.” Angry tears rolled down Sansa’s cheeks. Her chest contracted so much she could have keeled over. “Or are you going to pretend your spy didn’t tell you about my son?”

“Sansa,” Littlefinger said softly, “believe me, if there were any way to ensure the child’s survival on a journey as treacherous as the one you’ve just made, I would’ve told old Ruhskin to load him onto the wagon with you.”

His hands came up to her face again. Her flinch did nothing to discourage him. “You’re more like Cat than you know. How could I ever think you’d be content being apart from your child? Know that I did what I did out of necessity, but I did so thinking of your happiness first and foremost. Your son—Robb—he’s safe, and looked after.”

Sansa’s bleary eyes bore into Littlefinger. Reaching into his billowing black sleeve, he pulled out a raven’s scroll with a broken Stark seal on it.

“It arrived some two moons ago.”

The writing within belonged to Maester Ruhskin:

_Eleven Unsullied dead. The missing four are being held responsible for her ladyship’s disappearance. Master Rickon, Mistress Arya and the child are well. I have chosen a suitable wet-nurse to attend to his nourishment. Northern efforts remain contained to the north for the time being. Courses for justice will be pursued come spring. The north will remember._

Sansa’s eyes welled in equal measures of relief and distress. They clung to her lashes as she held them back. _Littlefinger will not witness my weakness._

“Shed your tears, Sansa. There’s no shame in it. I would expect nothing less from one whose world’s been turned on its head.”

“Why?” Sansa asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Why did the Unsullied kill Hrorik? Why did you bring me here?”

“I have much to tell you, child, and there is much to accomplish in the days ahead. But right now you look a fright, and you must wash and eat. I’ve had a chamber prepared for you.”

“I’m not staying here!”

“And I’m no stranger to the horrors that these grounds have seen. I’ve had the Keep that hosted Edmure’s wedding shut off in anticipation of your arrival.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine Lord Frey agreeing to that.”

“It doesn’t matter what he agrees to. Walder Frey, his sons—they’re are all dead.” On seeing Sansa’s dumbstruck expression, he continued, “Of course, you haven’t heard. The place descended into chaos soon after. It wouldn’t have happened of course, had Walder Frey had the foresight to train his daughters as I’ve trained you.”

“Wh-who?”

An amused smirk alighted Littlefinger’s weasel-like features. “A lone wolf cub. Or so the Frey widow says. She left with a warning. Can you guess what it was?”

Sansa shook her head.

“The north remembers.”

 _Arya_.

As with Bran’s abilities, this news should not have come as a shock. Sansa had taken more than a few practice blows from Arya since they reunited. She knew about the list she kept. She had hoped her worst fears were just fears. But the truth was that her sister, the woman who’d be looking after her son, Rickon, and the north at large in her absence, was capable of slaughtering entire families.  

The evening’s revelations kept Sansa on edge as she followed one of the mousy maids to her chambers. A hot bath awaited her there. When the maid began undoing the ties of her dress, Sansa shirked from her touch. Overruling the girl’s dutiful protests, Sansa sent her out and undressed herself.

She didn’t act so because she was squeamish. Her dagger, tactfully strapped to her leg, was her only defense here. She needed to keep it a secret.

It took her some time to rid herself of the road’s stench. An assortment of dresses—some of them brand new silks from Asshai—were hanging in the armoire. Sansa chose a plain and practical woolen dress, strapped her dagger back onto her leg, dabbed some Dornish perfume on her neck, and made her way to the dining hall.

Supper was an intimate affair; seating arrangements placed Littlefinger at the table’s head, and Sansa to his right. Sansa’s mouth watered at the sight of the succulent pork roast with potatoes and root vegetables set down before them. Her fork, however, stilled at her lips.

Sensing her trepidation, Littlefinger summoned Ksenya, a tall dark-haired girl whose face had been ruined by years of neglect—one of Walder Frey’s daughters. With a genial smile, Littlefinger ordered she taste the food and drink for them. She obeyed without looking at either of them.

“How do you feel?” Littlefinger inquired once she was done. “Light-headed? Pained? Tongue-tied?”

“Well, m’lord. Your supper’s been made with much care.”

He waved her out and turned his attention to Sansa. “Shall we start?”

Though she longed to devour the food, Sansa minded her manners. “So…what brings you to the Twins, Lord Baelish?”

“A cry for help,” Littlefinger answered somberly. “After the massacre, the Frey women were at the mercy of brigands and kinds of low-lives. Wayfarers refused to pay tolls for using the bridge, essentially robbing them of their livelihoods. And their Queen is in no position to offer help. It was never my intention to come here, but I seemed to be the only person capable of returning order.”

“And I suppose you get a generous share of the receipts,” Sansa added. “With all the smallfolk migrating south, your coffers must be comfortably stocked.”

At this Littlefinger smiled with pride.

“I still don’t understand why I’m here,” Sansa pressed. “Why the game of cloaks and daggers? What do you know of the Unsullied’s motives?”

Littlefinger finished chewing on his meat and followed it with a sip of wine. “I don’t know the whole of it but I can tell you the Dragon Queen is every bit her father’s daughter. I’ve witnessed the havoc she’s wreaked on Horn Hill: precious grain destroyed, innocents burnt alive, the surviving made homeless. She heeds no one’s counsel. That is, no one besides Jon’s.”

Sansa’s breath fluttered. She tightened her grip on her fork.

“He is, from what I observed, her last voice of reason.”

“You’ve seen them? The Dragon Queen and her army and—“

“Jon, yes. Our paths crossed on my way here. The southern winds have agreed with Jon. The Dragon Queen seemed rather enamored by him.”

“Oh?”

“It’s not surprising, is it? She’s young and unmarried, and he’s a young, comely king with a slew of heroic accomplishments to his name.”

Sansa swallowed her irritation. “Perhaps.”

“Jon—dutiful hero that he is—has taken it upon himself to tame the Dragon Queen; save the realm from her fire-breathing beasts and somehow convince her to abandon her ambitions and fight the Others.”

“You’re saying Jon is welcoming her infatuation?” Sansa narrowed her eyes at him.

“That was my observation, yes,” Littlefinger condoled. “Of course, none of that would have mattered if the Dragon Queen discovered he was the rightful heir to the Iron Throne.”

A chill shot up Sansa’s spine. _He knows. Of course, he knows!_ “I don’t know what you—“

“Please, child, it’s unlike you to act the fool. The boy may have Targaryen blood, but you were both raised Starks. You can fool the rest of Winterfell all you want, but remember, I spent a great many years in King’s Landing serving the Lannisters.

“There’d always been rumors that Rhaegar Targaryen and your aunt, Lyanna had had a child. Under Robert, the rumors faded away, much like the realm’s memory of Aegon and Rhaenys. But seeing the trail of devastation the Dragon Queen left in her wake, the remaining powers in the South decided to revive the rumors; treat them as fact. If a Targaryen was going to take the throne from Cersei, it would have to be a Targaryen born and raised in Westoros—one who could play the puppet and serve their interests rather than a foreigner’s.

“The Dragon Queen caught wind of their less-than-discreet inquiries, and had the poor judgement to confide in Jon. He was riddled with worry when I met him at Horn Hill. The realm faced a purge of the most violent nature if he remained silent. And if the truth came forth, not only would he be dead; the realm would be defenseless against the impending invasion of the undead. I told him the latter was a surety for Ruhskin had already informed me of your violet-eyed son by then.

“So, Jon—and I must commend him for this—concocted the most ingenious plan to confirm the rumors by telling the Dragon Queen the lost Targaryen heir was raised a Wildling who forced a child upon his sister.”

The pork roast turned to ash in Sansa’s mouth. “Jon’s responsible for Hrorik…”

Littlefinger nodded somberly. “It had to be done to secure the safety of the north. He implored that I get you and the child to safety.”

“But—“ Sansa mumbled. “But he’ll lose the support of the northern bannermen.”

At this, Littlefinger chuckled. “Sansa, these are the same men who sided with the Boltons to win Tywin Lannister’s favor. Once they see Jon with the Dragon Queen, her dragons and the army at his command, they won’t dare challenge him.”

They passed the rest of supper in silence. Littlefinger’s account of what happened unsettled Sansa. If he knew about Jon’s true parentage, chances were others did as well. Hrorik’s murder may have bought Jon some time, but Littlefinger could expose him whenever he pleased.

The rest, she knew, were lies. Jon would never trust Littlefinger with either her or their son’s well-being. Along with the real reason behind her kidnapping, Littlefinger had failed to mention his transaction with Daenerys; the forty-five thousand gold dragons he had come into. It was most likely he who sowed the idea of a lost Targaryen prince raised as a wildling in her mind.

When Sansa returned to her chambers, she played a little game Littlefinger himself had taught her at the Eyrie. She assumed the worst of him; considered the one thing he wanted more than anything in the world. _Her mother. Her._ _Power. The Iron Throne._ He had control over the Twins and the Eyrie now. With the money from the dragonglass sale, he had enough coin to outmaneuver Cersei.

Daenerys remained his only real threat. _He tried to negate it, but the north remembers. Always._ By persuading her to issue an unprovoked attack on the Starks, he had guaranteed a break in alliance come spring, perhaps sooner. Without northern support, Daenerys’ southern army would starve and freeze to death. The path to the Iron Throne would be clear for him. This had to be what he intended.

Sansa needed to go home. Ensure her men no harm had befallen her. Strengthen the north so Jon had the necessary reinforcements when the Long Night arrived.

 _You will fly too,_ Sansa remembered Bran’s words. If Bran had the ability to look into her dreams, perhaps she could tell him where she was. Perhaps she could warg into a bird and pass on a message of her whereabouts or call for help. She lay in bed that first night, trying to will herself to sleep, but she had spent so much time asleep over the past three moons, it simply did not come.

At first light, before a maid arrived with an ewer of hot water to wash with, Sansa performed the drills Arya had taught her. Foolhardy as it was, she had resolved to return to Winterfell by any means possible. She did not yet know how, but she knew the journey required far more strength and endurance than she possessed at present.

Littlefinger didn’t let her stay idle during the day. He promptly set her to the task of straightening out household affairs. Sansa suspected he did so to enamor the both of them to the small folk and solidify his hold over them—a tricky task given the longstanding blood feud between the Freys and the Starks. Still, Sansa managed some progress by imparting vital knowledge about fortifying homes against the cold, and making sure every family received ample grain.

So Sansa fell into a routine of doing Littlefinger’s bidding by day, and planning her escape in the confines of her chambers.

***

A full moon’s turn and a half had passed. Sansa still saw no avenue of escape. Her baby boy had seen eight full moons now. _What makes him laugh? Does he sing to his heart’s content? Has he begun crawling?_ _Have his raven locks thickened? Does he remember his Mama? Of course, he doesn’t. How could he?_ Sansa’s heart ached not knowing. There were days she would’ve preferred death over being parted from her heart’s joy for so long. _I will see you, sweet one,_ she’d promise over and over. _Even if I must breathe my last, I will see you again._

She went about her chores as usual that day. Upon crossing the courtyard from the granary to the guest house, she spotted Littlefinger on the second story gallery looking uncharacteristically morose. She joined him upstairs and followed his gaze to the north-eastern horizon beyond the bridge.

“Rather dreary sight isn’t it?” Sansa remarked.

“Mmm,” replied Littlefinger.

Sansa studied his face. “What ails you, my lord?”

He heaved a sigh. “What doesn’t? Days like this, I look at this wretched land and wonder if it’s even worth saving; if I wouldn’t just be better off living as a plain merchant across the Narrow Sea.”

“Have you received any news?”

“None that we haven’t anticipated. The Dragon Queen sails to Eastwatch.”

 _Jon’s finally headed north. The Great War will be upon us before long._ Sansa braced herself against the bannister. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Assuredly so, but the Dragon Queen’s absence still leaves us Cersei.”

“I thought Cersei’s forces were vastly depleted.”

“They are,” Littlefinger confirmed, “but there are enough of them scattered across the kingdoms to enforce her rule. People are simple-minded. They don’t want to think beyond what they already know. Cersei has been their Queen for years. Whether they flourish or suffer under her rule, they’ll choose her over the possibility of dragons, foreigners, an army of the undead, or even a simple well-wisher of the realm such as myself.”

The makings of a plan rooted itself into Sansa’s head. She joined Littlefinger in his silent appraisal of the horizon as her idea blossomed. Finally, she said, “If Cersei’s soldiers are the one remaining key to her hold of the throne, we should convert them—spark a rebellion.”

“A worthy suggestion, but rebellions aren’t just—“

“No, you don’t understand. My uncle, Edmure is at Riverrun hosting Lannister soldiers at Cersei’s command.”

Littlefinger laughed incredulously. “Edmure is a coward. He’s hardly cunning enough to steal sweetmeats from a babe, let alone incite a rebellion against Cersei Lannister.”

Sansa was well aware of this. Her great-uncle, the Blackfish had given his life for her uncle’s cowardice. “Uncle Edmure won’t, but Jaime Lannister might. He’s being held hostage at High Garden, isn’t he? We can write him promising pardon and protection from Daenerys’ ire when all this is over.”

“I admire your shrewdness, Sansa, but I don’t have it in my power to persuade Jaime Lannister to do that.”

“You don’t, but I do.”

Littlefinger’s eyes grew wide.

“Jaime Lannister owes my family a debt. Let me write to him.”

After taking the day to consider her proposition, Littlefinger accepted. They composed a letter requesting Ser Jaime to rally the troops at Riverrun in aid of the northern cause. Special care was taken in specifying his rewards. Sansa signed her name. Littlefinger sealed it with a Stark sigil he had made especially for the occasion. Within the sennight, they received a reply from Ser Jaime agreeing to the arrangement.

Sansa steeled herself. She didn’t know if she had the resolve to do what she had to do next.

***

 _“A fifth of a moment’s hesitation is all it takes,”_ Arya had repeated during training. _“A fifth of a moment’s hesitation and you’ll lose your only chance.”_

Sansa had dismissed her sister’s words then. Little did she think they’d be all she could think of someday.

She had delayed acting as long as she dared. Snow at the Twins now fell as heavily as it did up north. If she held off any longer, the road home would be barricaded in too much snow to allow her passage.

A long snowstorm had just swept over the Twins. Sunlight speared through the grey skies when its wrath subsided. In the bitter chill that accompanies clear skies on winter mornings, Sansa climbed to the top of the tower to gauge the skies. Winds were still and skies were alight in crisp sunshine as far as the eye could see. _It has to be today. Before the weather worsens again._

Downstairs, she summoned Ksenya and ordered her to have the kitchens prepare stewed prunes. The girl’s face turned beet red. It was a southern practice for women to initiate physical relations with men with a gift of stewed prunes.

“Who would you like me to deliver them to, m’lady?” the girl asked meekly.

“Have it sent to Lord Baelish’s chambers after supper.” Sansa winked mischievously. “Not before that, understood?”

Ksenya nodded. Sansa thanked her with a pretty pair of embroidered gloves she’d made in her size. _So the wheel is in motion. There’s no turning back now._

_“A fifth of a moment...”_

In between errands, Sansa discreetly collected food for her journey. She swiped a loaf of bread off the table while breaking her fast, and a few potatoes, carrots and radishes from the kitchens. She even collected a bag of oats and some hay. Packing them in a makeshift bundle, along with an expertly rolled fur throw, she stowed it away behind a stack of barrels on the way to the stables from the guest house. She then went to the stables to inform the stable hand that she and Lord Baelish required two horses readied the following morning for an inspection of the surrounding lands. In return for his service, she gave him a fleece vest she’d labored over for the past month. Hopefully, it was enough to get him to hold his tongue.

At supper, she ate in Littlefinger’s company as she always did. They discussed the possible uses of the toll collections. A substantial amount had to, of course, be given to the Frey women. Sansa suggested Littlefinger use his share to provide the smallfolk with better care, perhaps even train them. Not only would he win their love, he’d have more fighting men for his cause. She poured her usual passion into the argument, even softened her stance to his irksome flattery. By supper’s end, Littlefinger showed no sign of suspecting her of foul play.

_“A fifth of a moment’s hesitation and you’ll lose your only chance.”_

The words rang through her mind as she bathed and brushed her hair. She put on one of the silk dresses hanging in the armoire, pinched her cheeks pink, and rubbed a cut lemon across her lips to redden them. She checked her skirts, ensuring everything was in place, and looked at herself in the mirror. Jon’s long and somber face hounded her conscience.

 _It’s the only way,_ she assured herself, _we have no other choice._

_“A fifth of a moment’s hesitance…”_

Slowly making her way to Littlefinger’s chambers, she took a deep breath, and knocked on his door.

Littlefinger was visibly surprised but pleased to find her there. “Sansa,” he said, as if announcing a long-overdue homecoming.

Sansa feigned concern. “You didn’t receive my offering?”

It was strange, seeing Petyr Baelish genuinely tongue-tied. “I thought it was but a cruel jape by one of the Frey girls.”

Gazing up through her lashes, Sansa smiled coquettishly. “May I come in?”

“Please,” Littlefinger said, stepping aside.

_“A fifth of a moment’s hesitation…”_

Sansa bolted the door behind her. Attempting to hide his nerves, Littlefinger set about pouring them some wine.

“I have to admit, I’m rather…staggered by your sudden change of heart.”

“Are you?” Sansa took the two goblets from him and set them aside. “Then you mustn’t know much about a woman’s heart.”

“Most women I know desire youth, virility, a fool’s honor, and a good sword-hand.” His shrewd eyes searched for a crack in her defenses. “What does your heart desire, Sansa?”

Sansa took his hands and guided them to ties at the front of her dress. “Above all else? To be desired to such maddening lengths that my well-being trumps the needs of the realm at large. To be allowed the freedom to live up to my full potential.” She aided him in slowly undoing the ties. “To know that I’m his one and only.”

Littlefinger stilled her hands with a tight grip.

“Haven’t you given me all those things, Lord Baelish?”

“What about Jon?” he asked. He so longed to believe her.

Prying her hands out of his, she gently stroked his cheek. “Jon sent a foreign whore’s army to kill my son. You’ve kept it from me to spare me heartache, but I know there’s been talk of a marriage alliance between the two. It’s true that I made the mistake of loving Jon, but Jon—he never cared if I lived or died.”

She leaned in, her lips but a finger’s breadth away from his. “I was a stupid girl, Petyr. I should’ve known you were the only man who can love me the way I deser—“ 

Littlefinger’s lips crashed onto hers. Clasping his head to her, Sansa kissed him back with enough aggression to pass for lust. Calculated moans tumbled from her as his eager hands roamed her breasts, around her torso, and cupped her rear. Hips nudging him toward the bed, Sansa began undoing the clasps of his robes.

“I heard you on your wedding night,” she panted into his lips. “I want to feel the way Aunt Lyssa did. I want you to make me scream the things she did.”

A devious smirk curling his lips, Littlefinger swung Sansa back-first onto the bed. Before he could shift his entire weight on top of her, Sansa braced his hips with her thighs and flipped him over. Cutting off his awed laughter with more hard kisses, Sansa began grinding against him. His hardened phallus brushed against the inside of her thighs. Every fiber of her being wanted to wretch. She pressed on.

The hilt of her dagger poked her outer thigh. _“A fifth of a moment’s hesitance...”_

She put her all into kissing him. Swept him off to that sweet dream he craved. Kept grinding. Moaned wanton encouragements in between breaths. Her hand crept under her skirts and slid the dagger from its sheath.

She sat upright and thrust her hips hard against his phallus. His head fell back in ecstasy. In a fifth of a moment, the point of her dagger punctured his left eye. He cried out, not yet able to tell pain and pleasure apart. Realization made the screams shriller; shook Sansa to the core. She gagged him with her elbow. It took both hands and all bodily strength to plunge the blade right through.

He clawed at her. Kicked at her. Bit her elbow. Blood oozed from his eye socket. She wrenched the dagger out, ‘Stone and Snow’ now streaked in blood.

Her elbow having slipped out of his mouth, Littlefinger hollered, “Guards! Guards!”

In a fifth of a moment, the dagger’s blade glided across his neck. Wet warmth sprayed Sansa’s face. Littlefinger’s hands shot up to the gaping wound. Blood gargled from his mouth. Underneath her, his body jerked violently. On and on it continued until the quakes grew erratic. Eventually, they faded.

Sansa scrambled off of him, and toppled to the floor. She sat there, motionless and unblinking. Her hands, face, and clothes were drenched in blood. Her eyes were fixed on the door. Any moment now, one of his guards would burst in and catch her. Any moment.

She remained sitting there. For how long, she didn’t know. The guards didn’t come. It was likely, Littlefinger’s calls for help were not as loud as she’d imagined. Had she hesitated, she would have been a dead woman.

Arya was right. _A fifth of a moment’s all it takes._

Rising again, she looked at Littlefinger’s lifeless body. She should have been overjoyed. Gone were the days she’d feel his specter trailing after her—this man who’d separated her from her son. Yet, being trapped in a room with his corpse till daybreak reminded her too much of being forced to look upon her father’s head mounted on a spike. Death was never a cause for celebration. The ones by your own hand, even more so.

After checking and re-checking the bolt on the door, Sansa rid herself of her bloodied clothes, sponged herself clean, and donned one of Littlefinger’s robes. She removed the mockingbird broach from his chest, along with his rings, and put them on. With some ink from his desk, she drew onto her face a beard and mustache resembling his. She then rummaged through his belongings for some coin and the keys to his chamber. With the last of her preparations seen to, she pulled the bed furs over his corpse and patiently waited till first light.

When the first rustles of morning activity drifted up from the grounds, Sansa wrapped herself in Littlefinger’s winter cloak and pulled the hood over her head, obscuring all her face excepting her chin. Outside the chambers, she locked the door. Luckily, the guard posted a few feet away didn’t think much of her fumbling with the keys.

Nodding in response to passing servants’ wishes of good morning, Sansa picked up her hidden bundle of provisions and made for the stables.

“Won’t the Lady be joinin’ ye, m’lord?” asked the stable hand on seeing her.

Sansa shook her head. The stable-hand brought her the horse. He attempted a discreet peek under her hood while handing over the reins. Sansa promptly tossed him a silver stag to distract him.

On cantering through the adjoining town, it occurred to Sansa that Littlefinger would never inspect the grounds without an armed guard. Memories of the riots at King’s Landing bombarded her. _Sansa, how could be so stupid?_ It was still early though, and the smallfolk had yet to gather in their full numbers out of doors. Sansa maintained an erect, imposing posture in the hope of commanding respect. It seemed to work. A farmer’s wife even came calling after her. “If you’d be so kind m’lord, please give Lady Alayne me thanks. Ever since I started mixing the cows’ feed like Lady Alayne said, the milk’s been three times creamier. I can bring a few pails over to the house if she likes.”

When the settlement thinned, Sansa spurred her horse to a gallop. She rode all day. Never much of a rider, she feared she’d gone hopelessly off course. By twilight her legs ached beyond reason but she had arrived at a vast stretch of water. It had to be the mouth of the Blue Fork.

Before she’d lost all sunlight, she found a spot fit to make camp for the night. The land was slightly sunken than its surroundings. Roads with any thoroughfare were a fair way away and she’d stay hidden behind a thick and thorny thicket covered in snow. Drying off two flat stones from the riverbed, Sansa built a small fire. She fed the horse a mix of oats and hay, and had a few bites of bread herself.

She scrubbed her face clean of ink with some soft snow. When her eyes grew heavy, she nestled up with the sleeping horse and threw the fur throw over herself. It wasn’t comfortable but she was too tired care.

She’d been asleep a few hours when something snapped nearby. Her hand went straight to the hilt of her dagger. All became still. The fire had dimmed to a mild orange glow. She saw nothing past the length of her arm.

The rustling resumed. Heavy footfalls crunched towards her, and a giant shadow eclipsed the starlight. The voice that spoke was difficult to place, but familiar all the same. “You’re a long way from King’s Landing, little bird.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers!! Our baby Sansa Gone-Girled Creepyfinger. Woohoo! 
> 
> Also, I learned about stewed prunes from a fantastic twitter account called "Whores of Yore." Highly NSFW but totally worth checking out. Anywho, thank you for reading and injecting life into my dead writer's heart with your lovely comments!


	27. Starrold's Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran has another vision. The Hound escorts Sansa to Riverrun. Jon and Daenerys finally head north.

Rumbles, deep and menacing, of a long repressed hunger echoed through the land. Their tremors shook Bran off balance, and sent him tumbling onto his knees. Black grit—some of it fine, some of it painfully coarse—clung to him like soot, and irritated his nostrils. Dusting himself off, he shielded his nose and mouth with his forearm. Another rumble issued from the depths of the earth, this time accompanied by a sharp snap of stone breaking apart and crumbling.

He saw no sign of life; just black, barren, stony wasteland. It was dark, but not because the sun had set or a storm approached. The darkness sprung from the land itself. In thin, stifling wisps of wet and warm black. Amassing overhead, it was as though this strange land had cast a shadow upon the sky.

Taking care not to set foot in the gaping cracks in the ground, Bran ventured ahead. His nose and throat prickled at a potent stench that intensified with every step. He had seen enough and learned enough to know he wasn’t in Westoros _. Perhaps, someplace in Essos._ He had wandered off course again. _How can I defeat the Others if I can hardly control these visions?_

The wiser part of him—the Three-Eyed Raven—advised he take his time. The tiniest detail could make the difference.

The quakes continued, grew in strength. Sweat soaked Bran’s tunic and leathers. Before long, he entered a break in the black haze. Enough sunshine trickled through for him to see it: A lone mountain rising from the endless stretch of black gravel, daunting in size as it was desolate in appearance. Bran had never seen a mountain so strange; flat-topped and splayed wide at the bottom. Narrow tufts of black smoke spouted from the flat top.

It growled again.

_It’s alive._

He watched in fear and fascination. When the mountain’s clouds of smoke began showering rocks—some of them aflame—and an ever brightening red glow gargled from its mouth, he wondered if he’d seen all there was to see. It was too hot, too muggy to find any answers concerning the Night King. The old Three-Eyed Raven and Sansa had left him with a task. One task. Time was of the essence.

Liquid flames oozed over the mountain’s flat top. In spite of promising certain death, its ease while cascading down the mountain slopes, besting one of nature’s most unyielding creations, bewitched Bran. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—leave.

A wave of soft but high-pitched murmurs released him from the flame’s trance. Hundreds upon hundreds of tiny figures came scuttling towards him like a colony of beetles. He recognized their rustling speech. _The Children of the Forest._

Like him, they seemed mesmerized by the mountain’s prowess. Singing an outlandish hymn, they beat their breasts and clapped in harmony. Armed with tall staffs, the elder Children pranced ahead to meet the sea of flames hurtling toward them. The spread out evenly and circled the mountain. Bran had never seen so many Children before _. This is before the time of man. Their heyday. This must be Westoros after all._

Bran felt the next roar deep in his bones. Streaks of flame shot up into the black sky and rained down on them. Children caught fire, screamed out in agony, and burned to their deaths. Many lost their footing and fell into fresh crannies. Still, they stood their ground, unfazed.

The hymn stopped. The elders raised their staffs and answered the mountain’s war cry with a resonant chant. Louder and louder it grew until it was on par with its adversary. The flames mere feet away from them, the elders speared their staffs into the ground. A mighty exhale burst from them, nearly knocking Bran off his feet.

The molten river slowed. Its rich red color darkened to a glistening onyx. Creeping past the base of the children’s staffs, searing their feet, it stilled. The children shook free of the pitch-like substance and ploughed it with their staffs. Bran recognized the patterns they engraved into the soft rock. He had seen them draw such spirals and straight-lined shapes in the cave during his time with the old Three-Eyed Raven. They were nothing but fanciful drawings then. Here, they tamed nature.

The mountain’s growls receded with the Children’s continued ministrations. The black soot in the air settled at some point and the sky cleared. Bran almost went blind when the sun shone in his eyes. The Children who had stayed back to watch now joined in, clawing their patterns into the rock with their bare hands. Slowly, they all made their way to the base of the mountain, charging the air with something Bran could not name. Inhaling it, standing on the hallowed ground…he felt invincible.

The Children of the Forest collected shards of stone—dragonglass, Bran realized. In their excitement, they piled up on top of one another to touch the mountain’s face. Those who’d had the misfortune of falling underfoot went unheeded. Striking the rock-face with the dragonglass, clawing at it, chipping away at it little by little, they broke a hole leading into a deep cavern.

Looking past the children with great difficulty, Bran only saw darkness. It drew him closer. The children crowding the entrance seemed to vanish into thin air. He set foot on its threshold. And it sucked him in. Deeper. Faster.

He was standing in a chamber of ice. Great crystal spikes jutted out of the floor and walls. One misstep could impale Bran. At its center was an alter that was presently occupied by the Night King. Nestled in his arms was a child. The statuesque figure looked up from the child to lock eyes with Bran.

Stumbling back, Bran shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, he was in Winterfell’s Godswood. Someone was there with him.

“The mountain,” he said, like he was already in the midst of a discussion. “It’s their seat of their power.”

“Whose?” It was Arya. “Have you found where they’ve taken Sansa?”

Bran blinked away the vision’s daze from his eyes. “Sansa?”

“Our sister!” Arya fumed. Tired and bedraggled, she’d let slip the cold mask of the faceless man. “Robb’s mother. The lady of Winterfell.”

“I don’t know where she is,” Bran said bluntly. Sensing a reproach, he continued, “She wouldn’t want me to dwell on it. I must learn how to defeat the Night King—those were her instructions.”

Arya scoffed. “Oh, so you’re just blindly following her orders now?”

“No, I’m doing what I think will gives us the best chance.”

“Bran, we’re not going to survive the winter without Sansa. There’s already talk of the bannermen disbanding and returning home.”

“Sansa won’t defeat the Night King. I must find out who can.”

“Well, if you won’t bring Sansa back, you can at least help about the castle.”

“What use is there for a cripple like me?” he asked in challenge.

“You’re father’s eldest true-born son! Speak to the bannermen. Convince them to stay. You can spend some time with Rickon. He’s been clinging to me since Sansa disappeared.” Her eyes welled and her voice trembled. “And—I don’t know, you can at least attempt to beseech the southron houses for more grain and men.”

Bran waited to see if she was finished. He looked at her long and hard, and made an honest observation: “You always despised Sansa for wanting to be lady of the house. Perhaps you shouldn’t try replacing her.”

Arya bristled at his words and spun around before her tears betrayed her. She headed back to the castle without another word.

Remembering a vision he’d had the night before, Bran called after her. “When the visitors from Old Town arrive, send the man to come see me.”

He received no reply besides the sound of Arya’s footsteps padding away. She heard him, though, for a knock sounded at his chambers shortly after noon. In came a plump man, rosy cheeked from the cold, with a single link to his maester’s chain.

“Lord Stark,” he said, smiling awkwardly. “You may not remember me, but we’ve met—“

“Samwell Tarly,” Bran interrupted. “Son of Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill. I know who you are, where you’ve been, what you’ll do in the Long Night to come.”

Despite thinking Bran a mad man, Sam smiled politely. “Yes, well it was actually Jon who sent me here. He thought I’d be able to help with fortifications and such. I’ve got plans for things like a—a ballista which can launch arrows a great distance. Much further than your run-of-the mill crossbow. An-and I’ve got all sorts of designs for – uh – fire pots and trebuchets. Jon told me to look into concocting wildfire, and it’s doable but I’ve got to say, it’s a huge risk and I’d advise against making it within the castle grounds.”

Bran didn’t hear a word. “The horn Jon found at the Fist of the First Men. Do you have it with you?”

“The—“ Sam knit his brows. “I’m sorry, th-the horn?”

“Are you in possession of many?”

“I just—how did you—why—“ Sam shook his head. “Forgive me, my lord, but these weapons…they’re not simple contraptions and we don’t have a lot of time.”

“I’m not a lord. I’ll never be. And you’re not answering my question.”

“The horn from the Fist of the First Men—aye, I’ve got it with me.”

“Good. Fix it. The day for its call will be upon us soon and you need to be ready.” Before Sam could protest, he added, “Arya will take your designs to the artisans for construction.”

There was no room for argument. Sam made to leave, but he turned around, worried. “Bran…I couldn’t help but noticing, but—Jon mentioned he had two sisters. Where’s Sansa?”

 _I can find out._ But tracking her would lose him precious time. Sansa had left him a task. The only task that mattered. _Find the mountain. Learn what it can do._ He looked at Sam’s anxious face and somberly said, “She’s gone.”

***

“You’re a long way from King’s Landing, little bird.”

Relief washed over Sansa as she put a name to the voice. Had her mouth not been frozen stiff, she would’ve smiled. “And you’re a long way from dead, Ser Clegane. Arya’s quite sure she saw you breathe your last.”

The Hound grunted indignantly, threw some twigs into the dying fire, and stoked it. “That runt of a sister of yours stole my coin.”

Squatting across from her, he warmed his hands. He was just as surly as she remembered, perhaps a little worse for wear, but his deformities didn’t repulse her as they once did. The battle of Blackwater seemed a lifetime ago. The Hound had  commanded Joffrey’s Guard then.

Sansa kept her hand on her dagger’s hilt. Just in case.

“Well?” the Hound asked gruffly. “Finally escaped that bitch of a queen, did you? If it’s Riverrun you’re heading to, you’re out of luck. They say your Tully uncle’s a prick and the place is swarming with Lannister soldiers.”

“I know. I’m here to bring them north. To Winterfell.”

The Hound burst out laughing. “Is that right? Is the Lannister bitch dead then?”

“No, but Jaime Lannister owes my family—my mother—a debt. And if the Lannisters do one thing well, it’s paying their debts.”

“Fuck the Kingslayer,” the Hound snorted. “He’s no good to you so long as the queen’s got her cunt wrapped around his cock.”

Sansa pursed her lips and cleared her throat. She didn’t like hearing language of that sort lest it came from Jon in their bedchambers. “I believe he’s a changed man. He showed no resistance when the Dragon Queen arrived at the gates of Highgarden. Practically handed it over to her. Had he still been loyal to Cersei, he would’ve tried to retake take it from the inside, but no. Instead he comes to Riverrun to rally her men on my behalf.”

The Hound was quick to shake his head. “You’d best get home, little bird. You’re lucky to get out of that snake pit once. Only a fool would knowingly set foot there again. The Kingslayer might be sporting some new colors, but—ah, men do cuntish things for cunt.”

“Well, I have it on good authority that Ser Jaime’s enamored by another, so Cersei may not have the hold on him you think.”

“Horseshit! Who?”

“Brienne of Tarth,” Sansa said with a playful smirk.

“BREE-ANNE OF FUCKIN’ TARTH?” the Hound roared. He looked like somebody had bashed his head in. “You must’a lost your mind in the woods, girl.”

“Think of it what you will,” Sansa shrugged. “But the passes headed north will close soon, and I’m not returning without those men. We need every able-bodied man we can get.”

The ludicrous delight he found in her revelation vanished. Apprehension settled in its place. He chose his words carefully. “You planning on luring the bitch queen to your doorstep?”

“I don’t care about Cersei, or who lives or dies to sit on the Iron Throne. The real threat lies to the north of the Wall. There’s an army of white walkers practically knocking at our gates.”

“Ah, fuck!” He ran his palms over his face. “They got to you too, eh? Fuckers.”

Sansa looked at him questioningly.

“The Brotherhood without Banners, they call ‘emselves. Bunch of piss-pots, the lot of them. Keep killing themselves and coming back to life. Say it’s because the Lord of Light’s given them a greater purpose. They’ve been bleedin’ my ear out, trying to get me to come north with them. Say the flames need them fighting grumpkins from old wives’ tales.”

“They’re not old wives’ tales,” Sansa said gravely. “My hus—Jon, my brother…he’s fought them. And my brother, Bran’s seen their numbers. It’s not just undead men in their ranks. But women and children and giants and mountain lions. If they breach the Wall, I’m not sure we’re going to make it.”

The fire between them crackled and spat embers at them. It rattled the Hound a touch more than it did Sansa. He watched their mesmerizing dance and seemed transported to some far off place. Sansa thought it best not to interrupt. Finally, like one who understands and accepts orders, he nodded at the fire. “I’ll go with you then. First to Riverrun, then to Winterfell and on.”

They exchanged stories of their travels after that. When it became impossible for the Hound to contain his yawns, he pulled out some tatty furs from his satchel, laid them out, and drifted into a noisy sleep. Sansa couldn’t sleep a wink. True, the Hound had saved her from the hungry rioters at King’s Landing, and tried to bring Arya to safety, but she couldn’t shake the memory of the way he looked at her on the night of the Blackwater.

She sat watch, adding more wood to the fire, wondering if Robb was sleeping through the night. Wondering if she’d ever see her husband again.

Come daybreak, the Hound persuaded her to meet with the Brotherhood without Banners. “There’s no way ‘round it. The Riverlands are sprawling with ‘em. If you want your Lannister men to pass without any trouble, you’re going to need to talk to them.”

The Brotherhood was a motley band of runaways and deserters. Though initially irritated by the Hound’s detour, Sansa was grateful she had him as a protector. Not only were these men resentful of high-borns, Littlefinger’s mockingbird brooch on her cloak gave them reason to think she was a spy for Cersei. The Hound explained where she was going and why. Seeing their reservations, Sansa told them about Jon’s voyage to Hardhome and Bran’s vision of the Night King.

At word of the Others heading to Eastwatch, one of the older brothers, Thoros came forth. “Your brother…did he see a mountain shaped like an arrowhead?”

“He said they were still near Hardhome…’round and about Storrold’s Point by the Shivering Sea. He didn’t say anything about an arrowhead.”

Thoros took Beric Dondarrion, a broadly built, handsome man with reddish hair who wore an eye-patch, aside to discuss the matter. It didn’t take long for them to come to an agreement. “There’s not many folk—small or high-born—who believe the undead are coming. Your plan may be foolish, but we believe you, Lady Stark. We’ll let your Lannister men pass unharmed if you promise us weapons and provisions when we’re north with you.”

The brotherhood escorted Sansa to Riverrun. When they arrived after four-days, Thoros, Beric and the others stayed back in neighboring Rivertown, while the Hound and Sansa proceeded to her mother’s ancestral home. Her uncle, Edmure, a slight and timid man, embraced her on sight. To her utter dismay, Sansa felt the elder of the two as Edmure clung to her for strength. Whatever sharp words she’d planned to say to him were forgotten. She felt nothing but pity for the shaken man who begged for her forgiveness.  

When she’d managed to sooth his hysterics, a silken voice spoke from nearby, “Why if it isn’t Ned Stark’s eldest daughter in the flesh. Rumor has it that you’re dead.”

It belonged to Jaime Lannister. He was a far cry from the knight who seemed ripped from the verses of her favorite songs. Gone was the man with the long golden locks. Gone was the cocksure demeanor that won him every maiden’s heart. In his place stood a man weathered and wise. The once malicious glint in his eyes was now more of a more playful twinkle. For Sansa, it seemed her gamble would pay off.

Dinner was an awkward affair. With her mother and great uncle dead, Edmure didn’t have much to contribute to the conversation save ask after Sansa’s surviving siblings. Ser Jaime recounted his brush-in with Jon and Daenerys at Highgarden, and noted Jon turning a blind-eye to the Dragon Queen’s more ruthless exploits. Earlier, he had shown Sansa the missive Arya had sent, informing Edmure of her demise. The same message, according to Ser Jaime, had been sent to Highgarden.

“Now, I don’t mean to alarm you but I’m a little confused,” he said, scratching his evening stubble. “Your bastard brother tells you of an impending invasion of snarks. He then allies with the Mad King’s daughter under the pretense of amassing the arsenal to defeat them. But she sends her men to kill you.”

“Jon isn’t conspiring to seize Winterfell if that’s what you’re implying.”

“You seem awfully sure. One doesn’t just go from being a hapless bastard to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch to King of the North playing nice.”

“I trust Jon with my life. He’d never hurt me…at least not deliberately.”

Jaime smiled ruefully. “A man is capable of a great many things when he’s in love.”

“You think he’s fallen in love with her?”

“Would that be so unbelievable? Mad she may be, but there’s no denying the Targeryen girl’s beauty.”

Littlefinger had said the same. But he’d had motive to lie. Ser Jaime didn’t.

 _He’d forgotten you once,_ a serpentine voice said, _He’d lain with that wildling girl because he’d thought you were dead._

And now Arya had announced her death to the whole realm.

Jaime regretted his words. He took a large gulp of wine. “Brothers and sisters,” he sighed. “There’s no controlling them. No matter how much we love them. Sooner or later we must go our separate ways.”

Her moment of weakness forgotten, Sansa locked eyes with him. “Jon and I aren’t like you. On the threat looming north of the Wall, we are united. He’ll do his part, as I’ll do mine. And what I need to do now is go home with more men. Preferably with _your_ men, Ser Jaime.”

“You do realize making traitors of her soldiers won’t exactly endear you to my sister?”

“Cersei doesn’t have the numbers or the provisions to come after me. If it’s revenge she seeks, she’ll have a fine time getting it until the spring.”

“By which time your brother’s lover will have swooped into King’s Landing on her ugly black goose and taken the Iron Throne.” Jaime clicked his tongue. “No, I don’t think she’ll last that long. Not once the realm discovers how to destroy those winged-mules of hers. What then, Sansa? How will you fill the gaping hole in Westorosi rule?”

It was asked in jest. To mock. But it stumped Sansa. The future was something she often dreamed about; seeing Robb grow tall and strong with a gaggle of brothers and sisters, Rickon assume duties as Lord of Winterfell, and Arya watching over them all as head of the Stark Guard. And through it all she imagined Jon at her side, to hold and to love and to grow old with. But she never considered the fate of the realm at large.

“I’ll leave that to scholars and prophets,” she said, her uncertainty apparent. “Lord Tyrion, perhaps. Right now, I need to see to the well-being of my people.”

Ser Jaime raised his goblet to that. “As good a place as any to begin.”

Before returning north, Sansa informed Lady Tyrell that Littlefinger would not be needing the forty-five thousand gold dragons he charged for the dragonglass from Asshai. The disappearance of such a large sum would have been disastrous in more ways than one. Sansa wished to send the message by raven, but the Lannisters had had slaughtered all of Riverrun’s ravens to keep Edmure from sending for help. Sansa used a runner instead, and considered the matter resolved.

The Brotherhood had used their time at Rivertown to spread word about the Long Night. To gain support for the northern cause. On the morning they departed, the smallfolk came out in droves to bid them and Sansa farewell. They cheered in victory as they watched the Lannister soldiers leave. Rumors of Cersei’s fall from power ran rampant through the Riverlands and reached the neighboring Westerlands. A great many things—myths and truths alike—were said about Jaime Lannister and Edmure Tully and Sandor Clegane. But only one woman was hailed as Riverrun’s savior: a northern girl with Tully coloring; Catelyn Tully’s daughter, Sansa Stark.

***

“The last time I saw the Night King was over here, at Hardhome.”

Jon pointed at a crude map he’d drawn of what lay beyond the Wall. The Painted Table up in the Stone Drum didn’t included much of the north past Winterfell.

“Bran saw him and his army headed towards Eastwatch down here, so it’s likely they’ll be making their way down Starrold’s Point along the Bay of Seals. We can make landfall over here at the island of Skane, then send men to scout their numbers by boat.”

Daenerys furrowed her brows. Her hair was a ghostly silver in the pale light of winter. “And you’d gone to Hardhome while you were still Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch?”

“Aye.” Jon held her gaze. They were losing precious time. He couldn’t afford to be coy.

“Before you retook your home from—“ she looked to Tyrion.

“The Boltons.”

“The Boltons,” she repeated. “That’s an awful lot of time to cover such little ground.”

“Conditions beyond the Wall are much harsher than they are in the south, your Grace. There could be any number of reasons for the Night King’s slow progress. But we’d be fools not to use it to our advantage. We can stop him before he comes knocking at the Wall.”

“Or…” Daenerys said, studying his map closely, “…it could all just be an elaborate ruse to lure my forces away from the true enemy.”

Jon slammed his fist on the table and stalked away. Turning his back to the others, he bit his tongue to rein in his emotions. “With due respect, your Grace, if your stance on the matter is to keep changing, I think it’s best you let me and my men go. It may be of no consequence to you, but as king of the north, I must do what I can to help my people.”

“Your people are my people too, _Lord_ Snow,” Daenerys retaliated. “But unlike you, my duties aren’t contained to the north. I must consider the rest of the realm as well.”

Fists clenching and unclenching, Jon returned to his seat. Daenerys’ violet eyes were softer when he looked at her next. Her fingers reached across the table to him ever so slightly.

“I purchased the dragonglass from Asshai thinking only of your interests.”

Around the table, Jon felt Tyrion, Ser Davos, and Ser Jorah fidget uncomfortably.

“In return, I ask for a little patience. The shipment from Sunspear will be here any day now. In the meantime, we have other matters to consider.”

Jon returned her smile, but his skin crawled with trepidation. Daenerys had hoped her dealings with Littlefinger would mollify Jon’s despair over the unmined dragonglass on Dragonstone. But her efforts only barraged him with more worries. The conversation he’d had with Littlefinger before the latter left Winterfell haunted him day and night. Littlefinger knew the truth—about him _and_ about Alayne Stone.

_Then why am I still alive?_

It was foolish to think Littlefinger didn’t have an ulterior motive. If it wasn’t to get Jon killed, it was something far worse. The uncertainty of it all—his being away from Winterfell so long, Daenerys’ erratic tempers—everything set his teeth on edge. If any harm befell his family, there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He resented Daenerys for detaining him. And it took him every ounce of his willpower to keep pretending. To do nothing.  

All tethers to the north seemed to be slipping through his fingers. He’d not received a shred of news from Winterfell since Bran’s raven about the Night King; nothing about whether he was father to a daughter or a son. In the dead of night, he sought Ghost’s eyes; to feel the cool wet kisses of new snow against his hide and bask in the lavender and lemon scents that trailed Sansa wherever she went. He felt none of those things. Only briny winds sweeping across tempestuous seas. And the stench of charred flesh, both beast and man.

He had been having one such dream—of him circling above the grotesque towers of Dragonstone—when he felt a soft hand slip into his own. A faint pang of yearning pinched his heart. _Sansa._ He clutched it tightly, beseeching his mind to take him to her. To take him home. But he woke up. And it wasn’t his wife’s hand he was holding.

Jon discarded it like he would a hot lump of coal, and sprang upright. “What are you doing here?”

Seated on the edge of his bed, Daenerys placed her hand on his thigh. She answered with a nervous smile. “I was going to wait till daybreak, but…I just—“

She traced over the scars on his bare chest, utterly transfixed. “Jon, I know you’ve been melancholy.”

Jon stilled her explorations, but didn’t remove her hand from his skin. “Cheer tends to be rare in times of war.”

Daenerys edged closer to him. Her breath faltered on feeling the warmth radiating from him. “I know what—what you must be going through. And I appreciate how you wear your sadness better than most men. But Jon, it pains me so much to see you like this.”

“Forgive me, your Grace,” he said wryly.

“No, Jon…no.” Daenerys’ free hand stroked his cheek. “I want to make it up to you.”

Jon began pulling away. “Daene—“

“Please, Jon. Let me make it up to you.”

Jon responded with a deep growl. “How?”

A girlish grin—hesitant yet hopeful—lit up her face as she pressed an ardent kiss to his lips. “Come with me.”

Dressing hastily, Jon followed Daenerys out of the castle, up the eastern cliffs where her three beasts slept. They were no less intimidating now. Even their snores managed to rattle Jon in his boots.

Daenerys entwined both her hands over her stomach and watched them with pride. “Do you believe in the bonds of fate, Jon?”

Rhaegal stirred. He twisted his thick serpentine neck so he could see his mother…and Jon. A deep and heavy purr issued from the base of his throat.

“When I was a little girl in Pentos,” Daenerys said, unperturbed by the beast’s excitement. “I dreamt of nothing but returning to the land of my birth. I was told that if, by some miracle, I should ever set foot on Westoros, I’d be content for the rest my days. Then my children born, and I knew I was meant to do more. That I was meant to serve a greater purpose.

“They _chose_ me, Jon. They chose me as their mother. And I thought I’d have to brave this long journey alone for so long. But then Rhaegal…he chose you too. A-and I’m certain I’m not alone anymore. I’m meant to do it with you. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Together.”

Jon knew it was Daenerys who spoke, but it was the Red Lady he saw before him. _Maybe you’re only needed for this small part of His plan, if nothing else. Maybe He brought you here to die again._ He was running through the empty halls of Winterfell again. Searching the crypts. Calling for Sansa. _Intruder! Intruder!_ cried the kings of old. _Be gone, Snow! You’re not one of us!_

A year ago, he had the promise of being Sansa’s husband, father to their child, brother to Rickon, and guardian to the north. What was he now? A prisoner. A warmongering conqueror’s prize. A soldier fighting a battle already lost. He didn’t know. There was some truth to Daenerys’ words. But the path they treaded wasn’t one of glory. It was certain death. He knew it then. He would go north once more, but he would not live to see Winterfell again. His fate was a cruel one, for he was to die a Targaryen.

Jon trained his eyes on the slowly brightening horizon to keep stinging tears from spilling.

“Go ahead, Jon.” Daenerys prodded him towards Rhaegal. “He’s been eager for some time. He won’t hurt you.”

Drawing away from her, Jon slipped his hands under his cloak, rubbed his armpits, and extended them to Rhaegal. The great green beast jerked his head forward. His sniff nearly sucked Jon into the gaping cavity that was his nose. Another purr. Stroking his snout, Jon saw his reflection staring back at him in the black slit of Rhaegal’s eyes. Something snapped into place. Their minds were one. Whether Jon liked it or not.

Rhaegal bowed his head and folded his wings back to grant him passage. Recalling how Daenerys mounted Drogon, Jon climbed up Rhaegal’s arm, grabbed hold of a horn, and hoisted himself into a sitting position in a kink at the base of the neck. Rhaegal jerked his head up, nearly throwing Jon off. Scrambling for a firmer grip, Jon dug his fingers into a groove in his scales.

With an elated shriek, Rhaegal stood up on his hind legs. Jon hugged his trunk-like neck to his person and bit his tongue to keep from screaming. Dropping to all fours, Rhaegal bounded for the edge of the cliff. Jon shut his eyes. He was falling. A deafening swipe of wind brandished his ears. Then…he was weightless.

Tears—from choppy winds or his daunting revelation, he couldn’t tell—now fell freely. He straightened and marveled at the ever expanding sea beneath him. The clouds felt and tasted like the snows of the north. It wasn’t so bad. This must’ve been what it was like to breathe a free man. 

Dragonstone looked but an ugly stain from where he sat. It meant nothing. The grey seas, stretching out as far as the eye could see, were far more formidable. Yet, sitting on Rhaegal, Jon felt he could best them all. If he chose, he could fly home, and be with his wife and child by sundown.  But why settle for that, when he could end it all there and then?

He felt the power of Rhaegal’s wing’s in his own arms. The fire in the pit of the dragon’s stomach—he felt it in his own. One order. _Dracarys._ One order, and he’d be free from Daenerys. From Littlefinger’s schemes. From the petty games of mortal men. One order, and he’d command three full grown dragons. _Dracarys_. And he could kill the Night King. He could go home and claim the life he always dreamed of.

Hearing his thoughts, Rhaegal swerved back to the island, swooping over its long walkways, and pummeling the tower walls with its wings.

_Be gone, Snow! You’re not one of us._

The world around Jon came into focus. As though he’d just woken from a dream. He looked at his knuckles, red from gripping Rhaegal tight. And he looked at everything rushing past him, dazed and disgusted. _What am I doing?_ On his command, Rhaegal flipped away from the castle, and dove to make a smooth landing on the cliffs where his mother and brothers waited.

Jon’s legs were unsteady upon dismounting. Daenerys’ pride vanished on seeing his distress.

“I need to be alone.” His voice cracked. Without further explanation, he made to descend from the cliff top.

“Jon, what’s the—“

“It wasn’t a request, your Grace!”

Daenerys stopped in her tracks, eyes round in shock.

Jon left her standing there. He’d known about his Targaryen blood for so long, but now he felt it coursing through his veins. Everything he knew about himself was at odds with itself. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d never see Winterfell again.

***

Daenerys and Tyrion stared at the roll of parchment bearing the Stark seal. All fifteen of the Unsullied she sent to Winterfell were dead. They’d succeeded in killing Aegon and his bastard. But the one death that weighed heavy on Daenerys’ mind was Sansa Stark’s.

“Who have you told?” She was shaken to the core but she concealed it with a voice of ice.

“No one,” Tyrion replied, hoarsely. He suppressed angry sobs as he searched for words.  “You—you ordered the assassination of Jon Snow’s nephew, and you didn’t even _think_ to consult me!”

“The child was a bastard. House Stark’s future hardly rested on his shoulders,” Daenerys said plainly. Under any other circumstances, she would’ve chastised her Hand for his insolence, but she sympathized with him. “I’m sorry for your loss, Lord Tyrion. I know you and Sansa Stark didn’t have the most…fruitful of marriages, but I understand you were quite fond of her.”

Tyrion sucked in a sharp breath. His face twitched with sharp words for several moments. Finally, he said, “And what do you suppose Lord Snow will have to say when he finds out?”

“He won’t. At least, not in the near future, he won’t. Jon’s starting to see his place is at my side. When all this is over, Sansa Stark will be but one more corpse among tens and thousands.”

“Have you forgotten that you’ve promised to accompany him north? Do you think the northmen will keep his sister’s death a secret from him?”

“Skane is a world away from Winterfell. As I understand, it’s near desolate. The only person who can tell him is you.” Her violet eyes bore down on him before adding, “Which is why you won’t be coming with us.”

“Your Grace,” Tyrion said through gritted teeth, “with all due respect, I am your Hand.”

“Ser Jorah is a northman. He’ll serve me well up north as you will oversee my interests in the south.” Her lips pulled up in a contrived smile. “Consider this your final trial, Lord Tyrion. Remain loyal, and I’ll believe once and for all that you’ve forsaken your treacherous family. Betray me, and I’ll burn you along with your sister.”

Tyrion recoiled. The discussion was ended. He slid off his seat, and left Daenerys to ruminate over her next move.

***

The consignment of dragonglass arrived at Dragonstone some eighty days after their return from Storm’s End. They were of good stock; much better than what they’d been mining themselves. And they were ready to use; fashioned into weapons like daggers, axes, spear- and arrowheads, scithes—everything they could possibly need. The forty-five thousand gold dragons had seemed an absurd sum to Jon at first. Now, he’d gladly suffer another addition to Daenerys’ slew of titles.

The fleet heading north departed as soon as the weapons were transferred from the merchant vessels. Once out on the open sea, Jon hoped things would move along faster. Waiting idle while convinced of his imminent death had driven him to the brink of madness. Of course, the Gods were not so obliging. The fleet encountered one storm after the other, each more unforgiving than the last. They lost two ships along the way. Rats infested the ships’ holds and food supplies dwindled. The Dothraki and Unsullied began falling ill. Every few days, sometimes every day, Jon spotted cumbersome masses wrapped in hammock-cloth being tossed overboard. He’d overseen a few sea burials aboard his own ship as well.

Half the fleet stayed behind at the Vale to stock up on provisions and offer the sick some respite. The remaining who were healthy sped on, past Skagos to Skane where they were greeted by thick, unrelenting blanket of fog.

The small island had little to offer besides a smattering of crude huts and undernourished game. Jon and Tormund reverted to their wildling ways and made camp a little trek off the sand-snow shore. The three dragons circled the island in search of food. Daenerys and the rest of the northern party—Ser Davos, Brienne, and Gendry—came ashore to stretch their legs and discuss their next move, but returned to the ship come evenfall.

They were at Skane three days before the fog cleared and the sun reared its head. Jon, Daenerys, and a few others boarded a rowboat and sailed west. When the coast of Starrold’s Point came into view, Jon ordered the rowers slow down, and surveyed the seaboard through a looking glass.

There they were—the Others. Upright and motionless. One great mob of rotting flesh and bone; bigger than anything any great city in Westoros had ever seen. Watching over them from a precipice like a deity’s effigy was a figure clad in ice-wrought armor. Flanked by his white walker generals, he sat atop a destrier’s mangy bones.

Jon broke into a cold sweat. The Night King shifted his destrier to face seaward. It was nothing to the untrained eye. But Jon remembered pulling away from Hardhome too vividly. The Night King knew who approached on the rowboat. He was greeting them. Challenging them. Promising them a place in his ranks.

Jon handed Daenerys the looking glass. “You still think it’s a ruse to distract you, your Grace?”

Visibly shaken, she didn’t reply.

He ordered the rowers to row within shooting range.

“What, no!” Daenerys looked at Jon and Ser Davos as if they were both mad. “What if they attack the boat?”

Jon shook his head. “We should be safe so long as the waters are deep enough.”

He nocked a bow with a dragonglass-headed arrow and searched for an easy target. To the south, he spotted a white walker leading a group of wights to the main cluster. The wights were sparse in number and slow to move; a fair target for his demonstration. But too far out of his range. He passed the task onto an Unsullied soldier.

“Any one of them will do.” He pointed at the wights.

The soldier aligned the arrow with his eye-line, nocked and released. It split the white walker’s scull in two. The rest of him collapsed onto the ground. Behind him, the wights promptly dropped into a heap of rags and bone. A few high-pitched cries burst from the gathered mob. There was some rustling. But, as a whole, they remained intact and inert.

Jon’s eyes darted back to the Night King to gauge his reaction. Nothing.

“That was the sire,” he said of the white walker. “One of them at least. I’d killed one at Hardhome but I didn’t realize…”

“That killing the sire can kill its spawn,” Daenerys finished. She trained the looking glass on the Night King. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? All we have to do is destroy _them._ ” Her chest swelled as she braced herself. “We destroy them and we go home.”

Her implied course of action was tempting. Swoop down on the Night King and his walkers with three dragons. Burn them. Spontaneously kill all the undead. Could it truly be that simple?

They passed the return journey to the ship in silence. The hour was late by the time they arrived, and Ser Davos advised Jon against rowing back to shore in the dark. Daenerys invited Jon, Ser Jorah and Ser Davos to sup in her cabin to discuss when and how she and Jon would carry out their assault.

“Khaleesi, it’s far too dangerous,” Ser Jorah said, markedly distressed. “Could it not be possible to command Drogon and Viserion from the safety of a rowboat?”

“As far as I’m aware, Ser Jorah, the undead have yet to sprout wings. I will, as they say, have the higher ground. What do you say, Lord Snow? Shall we put an end to this once and for all?”

Jon sat slumped in his chair, picking at the hairs on his neck. Something about all this just didn’t sit right with him. “I don’t think it’s wise to act just yet. It’s like you asked of me at Dragonstone—the Night King has his numbers, so why has he been stalling? Why hasn’t he attacked the Wall yet?”

It was Ser Davos who answered him. “The Wall’s been keeping the undead at bay for centuries. Perhaps the Night King realizes his conquest won’t take him far beyond.”

“Well if that’s indeed the case,” Daenerys said, locking eyes with Jon, “what are we doing here, Lord Snow? You said yourself that you’d allowed the last of the wildlings south of the Wall. If the Wall was going defend the realm from the undead all along, why have I risked everything to come here? Who will answer for all my losses?”

“It’s so your risks weren’t made in vain that I wish to exercise caution,” Jon replied curtly. “We know some things but we don’t know everything about the undead. We don’t know what arsenal the Night King has at its disposal.” He massaged his throbbing brow bone. “Let me send a man to Winterfell. Perhaps Bran’s seen something else…something to assure us the Night King isn’t hiding any surprises. Until then, we can sail to Eastwatch where it’ll be easier to arrange provisions.”

Daenerys’s breath faltered. She looked away. Jon could tell she was clenching and unclenching her fists under the table by the way her shoulders stiffened. Preempting a slew of scathing accusations, Jon softened his voice. His mind scrambled for flattering words.

“Your Grace, I understand how this must be trying your patience.” He smiled in apology. “But the realm will never see it’s true Queen sit the Iron Throne if she’s killed. A-a-and this northern fool will never be able to forgive himself if such a tragedy comes to pass.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Ser Jorah glower at him. Ser Davos held his breath.

Body trembling with pent up emotion, Daenerys shook her head. “I need time,” she murmured, “to consider.” She then dismissed them.

Jon retired to his cabin and promptly fell asleep. It was not quite morning when the sound of hurried feet up on deck woke him up. Several calls to lower a boat onto the water followed. Dressing himself, Jon climbed upstairs and followed the flurry of activity. His heart dropped like a lead weight on seeing Daenerys being rowed to the shore. Waiting for her were her three children.

_Others take that woman!_

He sprinted to another rowboat and ordered it be lowered. Daenerys had already taken flight atop Drogon, with Viserion in tow when Jon touched land. Sensing Jon’s urgency, Rhaegal extended his arm to him, allowed him to climb on, and sliced through the air in pursuit.

Jon squeezed Rhaegal’s neck and leaned forward as he would a horse when he wished to spur it forward. The rising sun cast a bloody tint over the pale white and blue below. The world turned a blur. The wind felt like a solid barrier against his face. His chest constricted from pressure. Feeling his senses leave him, he grabbed on tighter.

Then Rhaegal turned his wings to stave his momentum. The curved horizon came into focus again. Not a few miles away was Daenerys and her dragons, circling aimlessly over an endless sea of white undulating clouds. Confused as to where they were, Jon looked over his shoulder. They had left the sea behind many a way away. The clouds below were blanketing the land below from view. Only a few peaks peered out from underneath.

“Daenerys!” Jon shouted over the Rhaegals’ flapping wings and the brisk winds. “Daenerys! Get back! It’s not safe!”

If she heard him, she ignored him. “Dracarys!”

Drogon and Viserion waged fire through the clouds. Unworldly shrieks filled the air as wights, no doubt, burned below. Round and round Daenerys circled, firing without aim. Jon plunged Rhaegal through the clouds for better bearings. He cut through a wall of encroaching wights with a river of fire. “Dracarys!” _There!_ He’d said it. _Finally._ It felt so good.

So many wights went down with a single order. Perhaps Daenerys was right. Perhaps they could end this once and for all.

Drogon and Viserion’s shadow darkened the field of fire he navigated, but they were nothing but black clouds through the thick curtain of white clouds cloaking the land.

Jon burned through wights left and right. He frantically searched the mountains for the Night King. _Kill the sire. Kill his spawn. Kill the sire. Kill his spawn. Kill the sire and end it all._

He found him with his back turned to the chaos below. A white walker handed him a javelot—wrought from ice and far bigger than any spear Jon had ever laid eyes on. Planting his feet, the Night King raised his aiming hand, not down at Jon, but at the two great shadows looming overhead.

His heart in his throat, Jon had Rhaegal spear through the wights, got under shadows, and shot straight up into the air, nearly falling off. The soft white river parted, and Rhaegal struck a gargantuan mass of black with his head. An ear-splitting screaming issued from nearby, followed by a blistering whirlpool of wind that threatened to suck him and Rhaegal down under.

It wasn’t Drogon. Reeling from Rhaegal’s shove, he and Daenerys were spinning further and further away. Fighting the pull, Rhaegal whipped his wings harder for control. Arriving at a great enough height, he levelled his spine.

The stench of living flesh burning seared Jon’s eyes, nose and throat. His head buzzing, Jon searched for its source. The scream echoing through skies waned and eventually ceased with a helpless croak. There he saw it: Viserion’s limp body—ablaze from the fires of his own chest, impaled flush through the heart—plunging into the depths of the sea of clouds.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew...that took DAYS to write. I hope it was worth it!


	28. The Shattering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the way home, Sansa runs into trouble with the Knights of the Vale. Jon is mysteriously summoned to one of the Wall's western outposts.

Wee Robb ensured himself of his Uncle Rickon’s undivided attention as he grabbed hold of Bran’s robes and pulled himself onto his feet. He swayed a little before finding his balance. A rapturous giggle ensued and Rickon clapped encouragingly. He always clapped. It was all he could do—bring a smile to the lad’s sweet face.

Bran had been sitting in his wheelchair, head tilted back, mouth slightly parted, and eyes ghostly white. He was off somewhere. Rickon couldn’t say for how long. Perhaps a fair bit before he’d come in with Robb to keep him company. What did it even matter? It’s not like Bran would’ve cared that Robb could stand up on his own.

Robb thumped his hands on Bran’s lap with great vigor. He growled in his babe-like manner, demanding his eldest uncle’s attention. Bran remained still as a corpse. Crestfallen, the babe looked at Rickon for an explanation.

“Never you mind him, ey?” Rickon said cheerfully. “Now, let’s see if you’re ready to walk yet. Come on. That’s it.”

Hands grabbing at whatever they could get a hold of—the armrest of Bran’s wheelchair, the bed furs hanging off the edge of the bed, the knob of a low drawer—Robb shuffled his feet after. At the dresser, he stuck his tongue out to get a taste of the drawer’s knob. His forehead hit the hardwood and he fell back on his bottom. Jutting his bottom lip out, he whimpered in indignation.

“No, no…” Rickon cooed, picking him up. “No, no…ssh…it didn’t mean to hurt you. He’s a bad dresser, he is. Pay him no mind.”

Rickon struggled to bear Robb’s weight. He didn’t mind the ache in his arms though. He may have been somewhat jealous of his nephew at first, but he’d grown to love him like a little brother or a son. Most men bore arms before they held sons. For Rickon it had to be different. Arya wouldn’t let him train more than was expected of a lad his age. _“You are father’s last true-born son,”_ she had told him. _“After all this is over, it’ll be your duty to continue the Stark name.”_ His blood was too valuable to fight on the front lines. Looking after Robb, loving him as Jon or Sansa would have be his contribution to the family.

Robb’s sobs had quieted when a sharp gasp had Rickon spinning on his heels. The brown in Bran’s eyes had returned. He’d broken into a cold sweat and his breaths were labored. “Alert the castle.” he panted, his voice hoarse. “The Night King…he’s got what he was looking for. You have to—you have to alert everyone. He—he’ll breach the wall. He’ll come to Winterfell.”

Rickon’s hold around Robb tightened. He gaped at his brother who’d grown feeble from his vision.

“Don’t just stand there,” Bran barked. “Go!”

Securing Robb on his hip, Rickon set out in search of Arya or Sam or Val. _I must be brave now._ _I must be brave like father and Robb and Jon. I must be the Lord of Winterfell._ The Great War…it was here.

***

Another javelot shot up from the blanket of clouds, missing Rhaegal’s right wing by mere inches. To the south, Drogon splayed his wings to stop spinning and, once steady, directed a threatening roar at Rhaegal. On top of him, Daenerys’ eyes were wide in abject horror. Tearing Drogon from his intended assault on Rhaegal, she had him dive at the bright amber glow under the undulating clouds where Viserion had fallen. A third javelot missed Drogon’s tail by a hair’s breadth.

Flying Rhaegal straight up to Drogon, Jon had the beast capture his brother’s head by the hind claws and pull him higher up into the air. Drogon shook free and retaliated with a swat of his tail that nearly knocked Jon off. Daenerys attempted to charge below again. And again Jon obstructed her way.

“Daenerys!” Jon shouted at the top of his lungs. “It’s too late. He’s gone.”

She pretended not to hear.

“He’s gone!” Jon repeated. Rhaegal splayed his wings in front of Drogon again, beseeching him to halt in his own way.

Another javelot sprang from the clouds. It missed them by a broad margin, but Jon knew the next one could spell his doom.

“We’ll both die!” He wanted to shout reproaches. But now was not the time. “We need to get back! _NOW!_ ”

Visibly torn, Daenerys’s eyes glistened as she stared at the gorging amber glow shining through the sheer white veil. Her lips trembled and her chest heaved from a sob lost in the wind. Time seemed to have stopped but it could not have been longer than the blink of an eye. For not a moment later, Drogon launched himself east with a single stroke of his wings. Eyes bleary from the brusque windstorm the black beast left in its wake, Jon commanded Rhaegal to follow.

Though he rode the fastest beast the world could offer, the flight back to Skane was the longest journey Jon had ever made. Viserion was dead. His body…had it fallen into the water? No, he would have heard a splash if it had. And the flames wouldn’t have burned so bright. But what if it _did_ fall into the water? Then they were just down one dragon.

To Jon’s great misfortune, he was not a fool. He knew full well that if Viserion’s body had crashed on land, the Night King would raise him as his own. An undead dragon. How did he let it come to this? He had brought the dragons north to defeat the blasted undead, not join them! The Wall was sure to fall now, and it was all his fault. His people—his family—were doomed to die, and it was all his fault.

Jon needed to act. Immediately. His body felt like it was being flayed inside. But in the few short hours it took to cross the bay, Jon could do absolutely nothing but panic. A part of him wondered, if he would not fare better just jumping into the choppy waters below.

At Skane, Daenerys flew over the fleet, past the coast, and landed a fair few miles inland. Jon was not far behind. Her legs were unsteady when she slid off Drogon, and she looked as though she was about to collapse. Dismounting Rhaegal in hurry, Jon rushed to her aid.

“Don’t touch me,” she mumbled before he could get to her. Stumbling away, she spun round and round, not entirely sure if she was awake or dreaming. “Don’t touch me,” she kept mumbling, again and again.

“Viserion,” she said, her voice cracking. “Viserion, what have you done? What have you done? What have you done?” She fell to her knees and howled, “VISERION!”

Her ferocious wails raised the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck. He had seen a great many things in his lifetime, but none were as saddening or frightening as a mother grieving her child. Daenerys would be adamant about avenging Viserion. But he could not lose more dragons to the Night King. Difficult decisions lay before him.

_When exactly are such things easy, Snow?_

Loss subdued Daenerys somewhat. Jon took advantage of her disposition and ordered the fleet back south to Eastwatch. Daenerys put up some resistance, but Jon didn’t shy away from reminding her why they were short one dragon.

It was a gamble; luring the Night King to the Wall, but the Wall provided the living with a prime vantage point. Under clear skies, they could see the Night King coming from miles away. The castle of Eastwatch would provide Daenerys’ men better accommodations than the squalid hammocks aboard the ships. They could resume their training and they would have greater access to food from the port. They would be ready.

From experience, Jon deemed it far easier to defend a fort than to meet the enemy in an open field. He and Daenerys could run short range scouts for signs of the Night King, and, if there was enough time, he could send word to Sam and lay wildfire traps.

 _Yes,_ Jon assured himself, _Eastwatch is our best bet._

***

Shortening days slowed the procession of Brothers and Lannister men. Luckily, the weather was amenable and what little progress could be made was made without incident. Though the Lannister men brought caravans and wheelhouses along with them, Sansa preferred to ride near the front. Ser Jaime and the Hound were fair talkers, and she much preferred partaking in their idle banter than festering in her worries.

Before arriving at the Twins, she hid away in one of the supply caravans. Ser Jaime was generous in paying tolls and ordered his men not to loiter about. The passage was swift and Sansa was back on horseback before they stopped to make camp that night. After that, Sansa hoped they had a clear path to Winterfell.

She had not considered the possibility of the Frey women informing the Vale of Littlefinger’s death. Had she done so, she would have foreseen their encounter with Nestor Royce and the Knights of the Vale on the King’s Road three days later.

Ser Nestor was younger than his cousin, Ser Yohn Royce, but he carried himself with the same dignified air. He had been acquainted with Sansa during her time as Alayne, and he had resided at Winterfell a few moons after the Battle of the Bastards. Sansa knew he thought well of her, and from his appearance he seemed almost relieved to find her. But he hardened in a flash, skipped all forms of greeting, and accused her of Petyr Baelish’s murder on the spot. The Vale was within its right to arrest her.

Sansa didn’t deny the allegation. She merely asked Ser Nestor if it would be possible to discuss the matter in private. The knight obliged her. He arranged for his men to lead the Lannisters and Brothers to a nearby village, and invited Sansa and Ser Jaime to an inn for the night.

Over supper, he presented them with accounts of all the troubles brewing in the Vale.

“It’s not just Petyr’s murder that angers Vale folk. Your brother’s alliance with this…Dragon princess has got everybody up in arms. They didn’t think much of it when they were campaigning far to the south, but then your brother had to bring them straight to our shores—greedy war mongers infesting our streets with their filthy foreign diseases. And Sweet Robyn—stupid boy that he is—is doing everything in his power to place the blame on Jon.

“The people are calling for blood. They’ll not be content till we move against the foreign whore _and_ the north.”

Ser Jaime leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the table. “Forgive my insolence, Nestor. But you _are_ aware that Daenerys has three giant, fire-breathing bats in her possession, yes? Should you declare open war on her, your men won’t stand a chance.”

“I know that,” Ser Nestor replied testily, “but nobles knowing such things won’t return order to the region now, will it?”

Sansa sighed wearily.

“Sansa,” he said, his voice gentle, almost fatherly. “We’d thought you dead, but now that you’re alive…perhaps your arrest will quell the outrage somewhat. Yohn will see to it that you’re not treated as a prisoner. You can even talk some sense into Robyn.”

“Ser Nestor, I’m terribly sorry, but I must return home to my son. The Others could breach the Wall any day now, and my people need me.”

“You can make all the excuses you want, Sansa.” Ser Nestor grew stern. “But the fact of the matter remains that you are a murderess. And the Vale will have justice, whether you come willingly or by force.”

“Now, now, Nestor,” Ser Jaime leaned in protectively, “there’s no need to threaten the lady. What if we were to deal with the other problem of the sick foreigners instead? Show the people that you do indeed care for their welfare…”

“Ser Jaime,” Sansa whispered, “we don’t have time…”

Jaime ignored her. “Look here, Nestor. What if my men and I helped evacuate the women and children from, what is it, Gulltown? Is there a safe place nearby we can put them up?”

“Well…” Ser Nestor furrowed his brows, completely blindsided by the suggestion. “There’s Wickendon. And I suppose we can ferry a few across to the Three Sisters.”

“Good. Let’s do that, and then we’ll help isolate the sick foreigners so as not to spark an epidemic on top of everything else.”

“It’ll be a costly maneuver,” Ser Nestor mused.

“In my experience, lighter coffers are far more preferable to riots and plague. All of this will, of course, be done under the condition that Sansa is allowed to return home.”

Eyes darting between Sansa and Ser Jaime suspiciously, Ser Nestor said, “Nothing good has ever come from trusting a Lannister.”

Sighing comically, Jaime looked at Sansa. “How about you, Sansa? Do you trust me enough to leave me here unsupervised? Or do you think I’ll go running back to my sister as soon as your back’s turned?”

His question gave Sansa pause. Did she trust him? Cersei had believed her to have murdered Joffrey. If Ser Jaime was still loyal to Cersei, he had had every opportunity to grant her vengeance by gifting Sansa to her.

 _Yes._ Sansa did trust Jaime Lannister.

Sansa smiled at him in earnest. “Not only do you offer my safe return home, but you also offer to save countless others. I’ll be sure to tell Lady Brienne of your generosity, Ser Jaime.”

“Not if I tell her myself first,” he smirked.  

A few days later, Sansa resumed her journey home with a diminished retinue.

***

The voyage to Eastwatch only took two days, but even that was too long for Jon. The Night King had a dragon now. For all Jon knew, the Night King could be half-way to King’s Landing before they made landfall.

His worries were for naught though. The Wall, the dilapidated castle at Eastwatch, and the adjoining port were all intact when they arrived, and the brothers of the Night Watch stationed at the castle had not spotted anything out of the ordinary.

Before all the men had even disembarked, Jon headed to the rookery to send word to Sansa; asking whether Bran had had any more visions that may have been of use. He had also considered asking after her health and the babe, but Ser Davos advised against it. In the event the message was intercepted, such queries would have put them all in grave danger.   

The rookery was empty. The few ravens the Night’s Watch did house at Eastwatch had all been dispatched south to seek help. Lady Brienne volunteered to act as runner. Eager to see Arya again, Gendry volunteered to accompany her. They left the following day at daybreak. Upon learning of their departure, Daenerys ordered her own men to follow by way of protection. Jon thought the gesture odd, seeing that Brienne and Gendry were more than capable of handling themselves, but he did not have the luxury of time to dwell on the matter.

With the help of Ser Davos and Tormund, he arranged beds for the men, oversaw the orderly transfer of provisions from the ships, conducted a final inventory of the compiled stock and set rations for everyone. The Long Night was coming but Jon didn’t know if it was coming in a day or in a year. All he knew was that the living had to go on living. If they didn’t, the realm didn’t stand a chance.

Once all the arrangements were made, and everyone fell into a routine, there was nothing to do but wait. The rations were greeted with some disdain but accepted. The Night’s Watch and Daenerys’ men trained together with their new dragonglass weapons. Skies were clear most days, and Daenerys and Jon made routine trips beyond the Wall to scout for wights.  They never ventured as far as Starrold’s Point, but they never spotted any signs of an approaching invasion. The harrowing sight of the Night King towering over his vast numbers, the agony in Viserion’s shriek as he disappeared under the sheet of clouds in a blaze of fire—it soon seemed a distant dream.

Days bled into one another. Though the undead did not come, death was a frequent visitor at Eastwatch as more of Daenerys’ men succumbed to the ruthless chill of the north. Every death took its toll on her, and the malleability in her that Viserion’s death had brought on began to wane. At times Jon wondered if she _had_ , in fact, convinced herself that the Night King’s army was but an invention of her imagination.

“I don’t see why my men have to die when Cersei gets to lounge about in the Red Keep, sipping on Dornish wine,” she quipped one evening over her lackluster supper. “In the time we’ve been wasting out here, I could’ve stormed the Red Keep three times over and assigned her men to the Wall instead of my own.”

Feeling Ser Jorah’s keen gaze on him, Jon picked at his bony game. His answer was practiced and lifeless. “Her men are your men, your Grace. It’s not becoming of the realm’s rightful queen to speak so.”

One afternoon, upon returning from yet another uneventful scouting excursion, Jon was greeted by a stoic Ser Davos. The elder man whisked him away to a secluded part of the castle to meet with a boy, barely ten and three years of age, dressed in black. He was a brother of the Night’s Watch assigned to the western outpost of Greenguard. The worst possible scenario sprung to Jon’s mind. _The Night King has breached the Wall._ But he knew he would have seen them coming if that were the case.

“My lord…king…” the lad struggled, “…I know I’ve only to take me orders from the Lord Commander, but I’m come mindin’ the wishes of a southern lord. He’s on death’s bed, and he needs a word with you right away.”

Jon knit his brows and looked to Davos.

“It could be a trap,” Davos said, hands folded behind his back. “I don’t see what business a southern lord can have in a place as desolate as Greenguard.”

“The man,” Jon asked the boy, “who is he?”

“He wouldn’t say, my king,” the boy gulped. “Only that his loyalty lies with the realm. And that…” He closed his eyes in an effort to remember every word: “…that dragons and foreign armies can break the wheel, but only a patient carpenter learn’t in his craft can build a new one to replace the old.”

Jon was transported to the humid and cavernous halls of Dragonstone right away. The words that followed the lad’s came rushing back to him. _Difficult decisions lie ahead, Lord Snow. I doubt you’ll be reuniting with your blushing bride any time soon._

Lord Varys.

Ignoring Ser Davos’ enquiring look, Jon pressed the boy, “What else did he say? Why doesn’t he come here himself?”

“Nothing else, my king. I told him I’d bring him here meself, but he refused. He’s not go’ much time, I reckon. If we don’t hurry, it might be too late.”

With a single glance, Jon made his intentions known to Ser Davos. To the boy, he asked, “How many of the foreign queen’s men saw you coming, lad?”

The boy looked at Ser Davos nervously.

“Three,” Ser Davos answered, “perhaps four.”

“Then we’ll have to move before Daenerys gets around to making inquiries.” Jon clicked his tongue. “We’ll ride out after an early supper. Ser Davos, I want you to stay here and account for my absence if anyone asks after my whereabouts.”

“Your grace, it’s not safe. At least tell me—“

“The less you know, the better,” Jon interrupted. “If I’m found out, you will not have to feign ignorance.”

The gravity of what Jon was about to do sank into Ser Davos. Masking his distress with composure, he said, “Well, I can’t let you go alone. Take Giantsbane with you.”

Jon shook his head. “It’ll raise questions.”

“Take Giantsbane, or I’m coming with you!”

A sharp reprimand, reminding Ser Davos of his place, threatened to escape Jon’s tongue. He caught himself just in time. That was not him. He nodded. And all was settled.

After supper, he, Tormund, and the boy from the Night’s Watch strolled a mile or so out of the castle’s vicinity where Ser Davos had three horses waiting for them. They rode west at full-speed in the dark with the glow from untouched snow lighting their path. Young as their guide from the Night’s Watch was, he was familiar enough with the terrain to guide them to Greenguard swiftly and without incident.

It was almost the hour of the wolf when they arrived. A dim fire flickered within the shabby structure around the gate that led through the Wall. In the modest communal chamber, the new arrivals were met by two other brothers from the Night’s Watch, a lad in plain clothes, and Lord Varys. Or at least a specter of Lord Varys.

He was gaunt as a stick, with eyes bulging out of his sockets, and skin as pale as the snow that swathed the north. Thin wisps of white hair sprung from his usually polished bald head, and the smattering of pink rouge hastily applied to his lips only accentuated his sallow cheeks. Even in his ailed state, though, he was immaculately dressed in embroidered robes of gold velvet and an emerald green cloak of dyed sable with silver tassels.

His bow upon seeing Jon induced a fit of coughs that, Jon thought, would suck the life from him before he spoke his piece.

“Really, my lord, it warms my heart—“ More coughing. “That you would come see me despite the circumstances.”

“I wouldn’t get too happy just yet, Lord Varys,” Jon said through narrowed eyes. “I’ve yet to decide how to punish you for your desertion. We’d left you on Dragonstone under explicit orders to supervise the dragonglass mining.”

Varys cast his eyes down.

“If Daenerys hadn’t secured the dragonglass on the mainland, we’d have nothing to fight the Night King with now. Your negligence could’ve cost us this entire war!”

“You speak of her as your savior,” Varys said evenly, “and yet you come to meet me, a traitor, under the cover of night, with the utmost secrecy.”

Jon clenched his fists.

“Ned Stark may have raised you to be foolishly honorable and duty-bound, but I never took you for a fool, Lord Snow. I know you’ve had doubts about her. I know you don’t believe her the ruler the realm needs.”

“You see a lot, Lord Varys. Perhaps, you’ve also noticed that who does or doesn’t sit on the Iron Throne is of no consequence to me.”

Varys nodded with a sigh. “The dragonglass Her Grace purchased—that is why I’m here. I assume you are aware of the man who sold it to her.”

Jon’s chest constricted. “Littlefinger.”

“Yes. I had eyes on you throughout your campaign of the mainland. During your sojourn at Horn Hill, the daughter of one of my freed little birds—Marzena’s her name, I believe—endeared herself to Her Grace and became a close companion to her.”

“She was there when Daenerys met with Littlefinger?” The walls seemed to close in Jon. His fists continued clenching and unclenching.

“Indeed. And I presume Daenerys hasn’t told you everything that was discussed at that audience.”

Jon locked his jaw. _My true parents…he must have told her._

“When you’d first arrived at Dragonstone,” Varys continued, “I had trouble placing the name Alayne Stone. It was many moons later—when I’d heard rustlings to the south-east that Lord Baelish had resumed his games—that I realized why the name seemed so familiar. He’d had a bastard daughter by that name appear out of thin air some years ago. But she wasn’t a bastard at all, was she, Lord Snow?”

Blood hammered at Jon’s ears. He didn’t reply.

“But I get ahead of myself. We were speaking of Lord Baelish’s audience with Daenerys. Yes, a curious yarn he told her…of a child born of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. He told her that this child had survived the rebellion, and that he was smuggled beyond the Wall to be raised by Wildlings. He would’ve died beyond the Wall too had you not unwittingly granted the Wildlings passage south of the Wall.”

Tormund snorted. Jon shot him a looking of warning. Varys eyed him with pity.

“The Wildling boy then…forgive my language, my lord…but he forced a child onto dear Sansa.” He nodded at Jon’s sharp intake of air. “A baby boy who looked unmistakably Stark, but bore the misfortune of having his grandfather’s violet eyes.”

Jon’s heart skipped a beat. He was father to a son. A son who would be around nine moons old now. His knees threatened to give out from conflicting surges of elation and fear.

“I was most intrigued by the tale when I received word of it, my lord. Daenerys had begun…unravelling at Dragonstone, and the realm has you to thank for keeping her from scorching the south. It scraped by under Cersei, but it will not survive Daenerys.

“I felt responsible, for it was with my aid she arrived on our shores. So, I chose to make inquiries of Lord Baelish’s allegations. I thought perhaps, a hapless Wildling boy—one who’d listen to sound counsel—could be our one hope.

“I went to Old Town and looked into what accounts there were of the Tourney of Harrenhal and the war that ensued. That is when I came upon a maester’s journal detailing Rhaegar Targaryen’s wish to annul his marriage to Elia Martel, so he could wed Lyanna Stark.”

Jon tore his gaze from Varys and paced about the room. His parents had been married. All his life, he’d believed himself the get of two irresponsible youths, and now…

…Now, he was the trueborn heir to the Seven Kingdoms.

His head whipped back to Varys.

“Of course,” Varys said slowly, “their union provided no proof of a child. I’d spent days sifting through records, and found nothing to support Lord Baelish’s claims. I considered it all a farce he’d designed to form a wedge between you and Daenerys, but then I was reminded of something during the rebellion that had struck me as rather peculiar at the time.

“It was that Rhaegar had chosen to assign his finest King’s guards to a secluded Dornish village when war waged thickest in the Riverlands. I had not thought much of it at the time for Rhaegar fell soon after, but one does wonder. And so I made haste to Dorne, and made inquiries among the elders and healers. As fortune would have it, I came upon the midwife who delivered Lyanna’s son, Aemon.”

He paused a moment to catch his breath.

“She had lived long enough to name the child, and leave him in the care of none other than her brother, Eddard. A few weeks later, he arrived at Riverrun to present his new bride with a babe he claimed as his bastard. But of course, you already knew this, _your Grace._ ”

 _Aemon Targaryen._ Jon tried the name on for a moment and shrugged out of it immediately. “It doesn’t matter what name my dead mother gave me. I am Jon Snow. And I will remain Jon Snow.”

“A pity…” Varys’ shoulders slumped. From defeat or fatigue, Jon couldn’t tell. “If there ever was a worthy ruler, it was you.”

“I can’t anger Daenerys,” Jon retorted. “We’re already down one dragon. If she decides not to aid us, we’re all doomed to die.”

“I don’t doubt it. Still, when the time comes, it will serve the realm to learn the truth. My own days are numbered, I fear. But I can die in peace knowing the realm will remain in capable hands.”

Jon wanted to scream that he didn’t want any more responsibility. That he only wanted to go home to his wife and son. That he only wanted to care for his family, and hear the halls of Winterfell ringing with his children’s laughter. He had fought all his life. If he made it out of the Long Night alive, all he wanted was to be left in peace.

But it was no use arguing with a dying man. It was no use arguing with headstrong minds in the face of doom. All he could do was meet every blow as it came to him, prepared to fight.

Varys’s palms were clasped together. Something about the way his fingers dug into each other unsettled Jon.

“But Littlefinger…why did he say I’d been smuggled north of the Wall?” Jon knit his brows. “And…and Daenerys isn’t a timid woman. Why hasn’t she mentioned any of this to me?”

“Lord Baelish is a seasoned player at the game of thrones, your Grace. He knew that in due time, only one man can overthrow Daenerys—you. So, he made targets of an innocent wildling and your son.”

Jon’s vision turned bleary red. His throat clamped shut, cutting off all air.

“Your Grace, I’m so sorry, but your cousin, Arya sent ravens bearing the news to every noble house in Westeros, and to Old Town. A team of Daenerys’ Unsullied had infiltrated Winterfell and assassinated the wildling, the babe…and your wife.”

The light in the crammed room dimmed. Jon stumbled. His leather armor’s collar tightened around his neck like a noose. In the hazy glow of the fire, he saw a beaming Sansa on Rickon’s arm, walking towards him in the Godswood. She wore her green dress. The one she wore when they first made love in the library. He felt her breath on the nape of his neck as he held her in his arms in the safety of their marriage bed.

 _“Our dreams are all we have left, Jon,”_ her sweet voice serenaded his ears, “ _Our dreams and each other.“_

With the last breath left in his body, Jon unsheathed Longclaw. “On your knees,” he ordered Varys, hoarsely.

“Jon,” Tormund cautioned with some trepidation.

Jon brandished the blade at his friend with a feral hiss.

“Please, your Grace,” Varys said, kneeling as ordered. “It would be a great mercy to end my suffering. I know you’ll strike clean and swift.”

Unable to see a thing, Jon raised his sword with trembling hands. With a cry that tore the muscles in his throat, he sliced the air just above Varys’ head and smashed the blade into a nearby pillar. His knees buckled as he turned away in horror. Tormund caught him before he lost his balance altogether.

Air flooded back into Jon’s body, along with everything else. It was too much. Too fast. And he wanted it to end.

Sansa…

He couldn’t even think it.

Sansa was dead. His shining beacon of hope was gone.

He wailed against Tormund’s furs and punched at his arms. _No, no, no, no…_

“Strength, Jon,” Tormund whispered, distraught with grief himself. “Now’s the time to be strong. We must’na give up hope.”

Jon wept till his body could no longer stand it. The lights snuffed out and he surrendered to the dark. But the Gods wouldn’t even grant him a reprieve in the abyss. He was revived mere moments later with smelling salts.

“She killed her,” he said feebly to Tormund. He wasn’t entirely sure where he was. “She killed my wife. And…and…I had a son. My own son.”

“Aye,” Tormund said softly. “Aye you did.” Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Jon, it’s almost daybreak. We need to be headin’ back.”

Everything around Jon came into sharp focus. Yes, they did have to return. And though his world had been devastated beyond recognition, he still had a duty to serve the living.

Love had bound him to duty all this time. Bereft of it now…he wasn’t sure he possessed the restraint to honor duty over vengeance.

***

Edd Tollett tightened his thick cloak around him as the cage drew him higher up the Wall. He’d been at Castle Black over ten years now, but there was no getting used to the cold and the dread chipping away at his nerves day and night. There were days when the view from the top of the Wall made him forget his miseries—so vast and wild, yet serene. Today was not one of those days. Storm clouds shrouded the sky and the rumblings of an incoming storm rattled him to the bone.

The boy on duty sprang to his feet as Edd stepped out of the cage. “Lord Commander.”

“At ease, Geordy.” Edd squinted his eyes against the raging winds. “Storm’s coming. You take care not to get blown off now, ey.”

“Will do, Lord Commander.” The boy’s teeth chattered.

Thunder in the distance made them jump.

“That’s all we needed,” Edd muttered under his breath. “A blasted thunderstorm on top of this snow.”

He walked along the Wall, trying to clear his head. There was no ridding his mind of numbers—number of mouths he had to feed, number of dragonglass weapons at his disposal, number of bushels of grain. Beastly task it was, being Lord Commander.

A bolt of lightning far north-west drew his eyes to a dark tide pulling in from the horizon.

“Geordy!” he shouted over the wind, “Fetch me the looking glass!”

Geordy hurried over, slipping and skidding on the ice, and handed him the instrument. Edd’s heart stopped dead when he looked through it.

Swarms of undead—hundreds and thousands of them. Marching south, towards them.

Another flash of lightning lit up the grey skies to reveal a great winged shadow above the dark tide of the undead. A tiny bird shaped figure growing larger and larger with every flicker of light that stroked the sky.

“Geordy,” Edd gulped. “Sound the horn.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourself, melodrama is coming! I knew this was coming but it didn't make writing Jon's reaction any easier. Hope you enjoyed!


	29. The Siege of Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon struggles to cope with his grief. Whitewalkers arrive at Winterfell. Sansa must face one last hurdle before returning home.
> 
> Content Warning: Very hokey physics.

The ride back to Eastwatch passed in a stilted haze. If Tormund had led Jon into a ditch and left him to starve, or presented him as a sacrificial offering to the Night King himself, Jon would not have known. Nor would he have cared. Grief had numbed him from his harsh surroundings. From everything. Even the truth.

He wanted to go home to his wife. He wanted to gather her in his arms and inhale the lavender scent in her hair that always calms his senses. The farther he rode from Greenguard, the more plausible such an outcome seemed. Why, he could have just turned around that instant and rode for Winterfell instead of returning to Eastwatch. There would have been some confusion, and Daenerys would be furious, but he’d see Sansa again. Sansa and his son. She had to be alive. How could she be otherwise?

But no matter how much he refused to come to terms with the news, he could not rid himself of the sight of Varys’ gaunt frame. His painted lips addressing him by the name, Aemon Targaryen. The relief in his taut face as he knelt before him and bowed his head in invitation for the blade. Jon was not a man taken to daydreaming. He didn’t have the imagination to conjure such a spectacle. Nor did he have enough of a penchant for words to conceive the terrible things Varys told him.

“I’d been fooled by Sansa when she was a girl,” Varys had said before Jon and Tormund took their leave. There was a hint of a melancholy smile on his lips. “She looked a dainty bird but she was a wolf through and through.”

Jon could not hear it. _How dare he speak of Sansa? How dare he try to share in his grief?_

“After Eddard Stark’s execution,” Varys continued despite Jon’s visible ire, “Joffrey had his head mounted on a spike, and poor Sansa was made to look at it until her legs gave way. She could have run. Gods know, Joffrey would’ve put her out of her misery sooner if she had. But she remained standing, obedient and servile, biding her time in the nest of vipers because she knew she was no good to her father’s legacy dead.”

He had fixed a stern gaze on Jon then. “Your Grace, I have advised my share of kings and queens. Now that I stand on death’s door, I offer one last piece of counsel: don’t let your passions get the best of you. Lady Sansa served her people in the hope they’d live to see the spring, live to know peace. Do not let her have died in vain.”

No, Jon could not have dreamed all that. He could very well turn around and return to Winterfell, but he would never hold Sansa again. She was dead. She and their son were dead because he had gone south. It was his fault. And he could not even console himself with the promise of seeing them in the afterlife for he knew…He knew this life was all he had.

Life. That was to be his sentence. The greatest punishment of all. He had to go on living. To honor her. To repent. But how could he bear to go on?

The harrowing prospect knocked the remaining presence from Jon’s shell. His hands let go of the reins and his legs went slack around his horse. Sliding off his saddle, he let nature do the rest and fell from his horse with a crunch on the icy snow. Moments later, he felt strong hands pluck him and prop him against a tree trunk. Padded fingers smacked at his cheeks, and a familiar voice called out his name.

“Others take ye, boy,” the gruff voice muttered. It was Tormund. Jon blinked a few times. Yes, that was his grizzly red hair before him. “The Dragon Mother’ll know something’s the matter if I take ye back looking like this.”

Jon let his eyes glaze over, and muffled everything out.

“Dammit, Jon!” Tormund’s words echoed in the hollow chambers of Jon’s mind. “Alright, I’ll go fetch help. Can ye promise me ye won’t try anythin’ reckless while I’m gone?”

Gazing out into nothing, Jon didn’t respond. He sat there in the cold. For seconds, for hours, for days…he had no idea. His toes and fingers ached from the chill. Perhaps they’d fall off. He could stand to lose a leg if it meant getting Sansa back. Isn’t that how the Red Lady’s magic worked? Blood and bones for life? Or was it a life for a life? _The Red Lady—yes, she would know_. Jon would have given her anything she asked to bring Sansa back to him. Daenerys had mentioned meeting Melisandre at Dragonstone. _I can sail back and find her._

Approaching footfalls interrupted his meditations. With some effort, Jon sharpened his vision to see Tormund leading Ser Davos to him. Seeing the elder man hesitate to come too close to him too fast, grief chipping away at his own façade of strength, cut fresh wounds in Jon. He began spiraling all over again.

Barely able to keep his own tears at bay, Ser Davos squatted before Jon and stroked Jon’s head as a father would a son. The gesture made the truth hit Jon harder than it had when he first heard it. Bowing his head, he wept uncontrollably. And Ser Davos wept with him. Jon had not only lost his wife; they had both lost their queen.

“Shed your tears, my boy,” Ser Davos said when the severity of Jon’s sobs had subsided somewhat. “Shed them here where you are only Lady Sansa’s husband. When we get to Eastwatch, you must don the robes of a king.”

Jon gave a small shake of the head. “I’m not going back to Eastwatch.”

Ser Davos looked to Tormund and then back to Jon.

“The Red Lady brought me back to life.” Jon rose to his feet and winced at the stiffness in his joints. His balance faltered as he searched the vicinity for his horse. “She can bring Sansa back with my king’s blood.”

Grabbing a hold of Jon’s arm, Ser Davos spun him around to face him. “Jon, that’s the speak of a mad man.”

“You were there!” Jon shouted. He shoved the old man away. “You stood guard over my corpse until she brought me back. I must do the same for Sansa.”

“Jon—my lord! Your duty lies here. You can’t just leave Daenerys and her men unattended here. You know what she’s like. You know what she’ll do if you’re not here to talk sense into her.”

Drawing Longclaw from its sheath, Jon aimed its tip at Ser Davos’ neck. “Don’t you dare tell me what I do or do not know.”

“My lord, you are not yourself!” Ser Davos reached for the hilt of his own sword. “Lady Sansa is dead. If I am to take into account the time it took Varys to come north, she has been dead for some time.”

Uttering an animalistic war cry, Jon thrust his blade at Ser Davos. Saving his neck by a hairsbreadth, Ser Davos drew his sword and blocked and parried Jon’s swings. The Onion Knight had a strong presence of mind to his advantage. But even in his rage-addled exhaustion, Jon was a formidable opponent. They didn’t call him the fastest swordsman in the north for nothing. Jon hammered and thrusted his blade with brute force and blinding rage, unmindful of where he backed Ser Davos to or who approached him from behind. Ser Davos had just entwined their blades in tricky lock, when something hard smashed the back of his head.

Seeing stars, Jon stumbled as he pivoted. He saw Tormund holding up a boulder, ready to hit him again if need be. Mouth agape in indignation, Jon collapsed onto the ground and lost consciousness.

He woke up in his chambers at Eastwatch castle. He heard men bustling about the castle as though it were morning, but candles had been lit along with the fire in his chambers. From his window, he saw overcast skies. Thunder rumbled in the distance, rattling the foundations of the ancient castle. He lay in bed orienting himself. A slight shift of the head sent a sharp pain throbbing through his skull. Then another bout of thunder sounded, and the floors gave a startling jolt.

Eyes widening, Jon surveyed his room and found Ser Davos seated at his bedside with his chin resting in his palm in concern.

“What time is it?” Jon asked groggily.

The tremors persisted.

“Morning,” Ser Davos replied sharply. “You’ve been out cold three days.”

A bolt of lightning lit up the chamber so bright, Jon had to shut his eyes. The subsequent thunder sent a jolt through his spine, and another quake through the floors.

“The weather…”

“Curious, I know.” Ser Davos crossed the room to look out the window. “The foreigners seem to think it’s a bad omen. I don’t blame them.”

“White walkers...” Jon mumbled. He tried to sit up but the pain in his head sent him sinking back into the pillow. “Are they…”

“No,” Ser Davos replied softly, “there’ve been no sightings. Of course, Daenerys hasn’t been able to go on any scouts the past three days without the proper escort.”

Everything came flooding back to Jon. His breath faltered, but he was too tired to mourn anymore. He only sighed in defeat. “I can’t stand the thought of facing her,” he said bitterly. “I know what my duty requires of me, but I’m afraid I’ll wring the life from her the moment I clap eyes on her.”

“I know. That’s why I gave you the milk of poppy when we returned. You were a raving madman when you came to from Tormund’s blow.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon shut his eyes, tried to bring the throbbing in his head under control. “For pulling my blade on you.”

“It’s no matter. I’ve lost a wife and son as well. I know how it is.”

They felt silent, listening to rain thrumming against the castle walls, punctuated with lightning and thunder. Ser Davos expected nothing of Jon that very moment. But Jon knew he had to resume his duties sooner or later. They’d gone three whole days without scouting. The Night King could be on their doorstep by evening for all he knew.

***

Winterfell was in chaos. Days after Rickon came running to Arya about Bran’s vision, a weather-beaten brother from the Night’s Watch arrived at the castle bearing news that the Night King had breached Castle Black. Mountainfolk, and the people of Karhold and the Dreadfort and thereabouts had begun trickling in. They were all escorted by brothers of the Night’s Watch. There was no defending Castle Black, they said. The Others had a flying monster. They had not witnessed it, but the Wall was sure to have been razed, their sworn brothers likely dead.

The evacuees had brought supplies with them, but they wouldn’t last long. Amidst revisions of rations, and preparations for the impending siege, Arya was beside herself. She had first thought to move everyone to higher floors in the event Winterfell’s walls were breached, but learning of the dragon in the Night King’s ranks, she decided to move all grain stocks and other essentials down to the crypts.

Shortly after he had arrived at Winterfell, Sam had set up a forge in an abandoned holdfast equidistant from Winterfell and the White Knife to tinker with wildfire. He thought it best not to concoct it near the castle where any number of mishaps could have occurred. While he routinely reported significant progress, Arya never saw a flicker of the fire. What she _could_ observe of Sam during his short visits to Winterfell was an indulgent obsession with the repair of an old war horn. Worse was that Bran encouraged these childish fancies, even after sounding the alarms of the Night King’s approach.

With Sam gone for long spells at a time, Gendry and the artisans at Winterfell struggled to build the weapons from Sam’s drawings alone. Once they’d succeeded in building the first of a weapon, however, building subsequent pieces took far less time. By the time the first brother of the Night’s Watch arrived, they’d built some thirty-seven traction trebuchets to go on the battlements, and a whole arsenal of clay firepots to load them with. Their one completed ballista was too large to take to the battlements. It was stowed away in a collapsible shed in the courtyard. The only thing they could not get to work was a tubular siphon designed to fire at a short range. Arya did not place much importance on the contraption. If they had to fight off walkers at such short range, they were better off using spears and arrows.

Bran couldn’t foresee when the Others would breach their lands. Just that it would be night when they would. Snow would make it easy to spot intruders from the east and south. The Wolfswood to the north and west was trickier to surveil. Arya ordered snares be laid along the woods’ fringes. The Others weren’t savvy in the art of human warfare. They did not know to keep quiet in their distress if captured.

With final checks and the evacuation of Wintertown underway, Arya sent runners to Sam’s forge, summoning him back to the castle with whatever wildfire he’d made. He returned every runner bearing excuses. _It’s still too temperamental. It’s not burning as it ought to. I can’t be certain how long the flames will burn. It’s showing properties too different from the ones observed in my notes._ Arya couldn’t help but wonder if he had been making wildfire, or just siphoning the materials to line his pockets.

Sam’s reluctance to return passed the sennight. Arya abandoned her duties in Winterfell and rode to the makeshift forge, bringing Gendry and the necessary carts and wheelhouses needed to move the wildfire with her. Even then, Sam remained resolute in his reluctance.

“I’ve only just sealed the cracks in the barrels with wax,” he said hurriedly as Arya riddled her way through the dark and winding corridors of the dilapidated holdfast. Torches were used sparsely for fear of lighting the wildfire. “They’ll need to be tested with water to be certain there aren’t going to be any leaks.”

“That’s a chance we’re going to have to take,” Arya said. She peered into a hall that the corridor opened into. Empty. She continued ahead.

“The men will need to be warned,” Sam panted, trying his best to keep up. “They can’t be smoking their pipes and making cookfires near it. A-a-and we’ll need to arrange for plenty of sand in case a fire does break out.”

Arya skidded to a halt at a dark chamber, cooler than most. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, she made out the round silhouettes of tens of cauldrons. Craning her neck, she caught a glimmer of glossy emerald green in the scant light pouring in from outside.

Stepping inside, Arya remarked, “Well, I’m glad you haven’t been sitting idle here.”

“Lady Stark—Arya, you don’t understand…I haven’t been able to make two identical batches. They’re all different. Some will burn higher than others, a-a-and there’re some that’ll spread more quickly than the rest.”

“But they’ll all burn,” Arya said tersely.

“I just…I’d sleep better knowing if—“

“My question, Sam,” Arya interrupted.

“Better answer ‘er, maester,” Gendry prodded. “You don’t want to be at the end of ‘er blade, I tell you.”

The tension in Arya’s shoulders slackened a little. She looked here and there, glad it was too dark to see her face reddening.

With a sigh, Sam said, “Yes, they’ll all burn…to some extent.”

“That’s good enough for me. How long will it take to load the barrels and have them ready for Winterfell?”

“Oh, umm, days I reckon…maybe eight or nine.”

Arya shot him a deadly glare. He gulped in the dark. The whites of his eyes shifted as he took stock of the number of cauldrons and ran the sums in his head.

“Fine then, a day,” he said with a nervous quiver. “But if we die on our way to Winterfell because of a cookfire too close to a leak, I won’t have you placing the blame on me.”

He had the barrels filled and loaded for Winterfell by noon the following day. By evenfall the day after, they were back at Winterfell. The barrels were carefully hauled up steep ramps to the battlements where the trebuchets had been set up. Sam and Arya then supervised the fitting of nozzles into the barrels. Funnels were passed around to pour the deadly liquid into clay pots. Once full, the pots were stoppered and carefully set aside for use.

While waiting for a sizeable enough sum of clay pots to be filled, Sam checked the trebuchets. He pulled on the sling attached to the long end of the beam, then jerked the axle to check it was firmly locked into place.

“How far can it throw?” he asked Arya.

“Three-fifths of mile when we tested it.”

“Oh…” Sam remarked, following Arya’s gaze beyond the battlements. He kept on looking at the white expanse as though he the exact spot that marked three-fifths of a mile. “It feels like it did before the Battle for Castle Black,” he reflected after a long stretch of silence.

Arya didn’t know what that was.

“When the free folk attacked the Wall,” Sam explained. “Right before Jon became Lord Commander.” He chuckled morosely. “They’d said they’d light the greatest fire the North had ever seen. I reckon we might just beat them…if all goes to plan, that is.”

Breathing deeply, Arya tried keeping her nerves at bay. “Let’s hope.”

“You remind me of him, you know,” Sam said softly. “Of Jon.”

Pride blossomed in Arya’s chest, but she was quick to trample it. It wasn’t true. She wasn’t anything like Jon. Or Sansa. She was neither a military mind nor a savvy lady of the house. She was only a lone wolf; swift, lethal, and clean in her tactics. The north needed Jon and Sansa now, but all they got was Arya.

Though she mourned her elder sister, Arya was grateful for the little time she’d had with Sansa. She may not have learned the charms and curtsies of a true lady, but she did learn one important lesson: There was more to survival than brandishing a blade out of a bind.

_A lady—or any ruler, for that matter—must always count to five before she does anything,_ Sansa had said, _lest she find herself in the direst of straits._

Arya had dismissed the counsel as a meek effort to get her to be more ladylike. But since Sansa’s passing, she found herself heeding it to keep from surrendering to her baser nature. _One, two, three, four,_ and Arya spared the life of the youth stealing grain from the stores. _One, two, three, four,_ and she stayed her hand from hitting Rickon when he clung to her too much. _One, two, three, four,_ and she kept from snapping at the servants grumbling about reduced rations.

It became easier to rule in fairness, with compassion. But there was no comfort in that ease. Not with the inevitability of death and destruction on her watch. Not with sleepless nights spent patrolling the battlements, watching the horizons for any sign of movement. 

***

Icy night winds bit at Arya’s nose and swirled starlight before her teary eyes. It had been twelve days since she’d returned home with the wildfire. Every night, she bid Rickon and wee Robb a heartfelt goodnight, reminding them to take cover in the crypts if the bells and horns were sounded. Every night she asked Bran if tonight would be the night and he responded with little but a shrug. Tonight seemed like all other nights. She huddled by a fire drum with Gendry, yearning for a good night’s sleep, occasionally chuckling at the disapproving looks Gendry shot at men making lewd japes amongst themselves.

A high pitched yowl pierced through the whistling winds. It came from the Wolfswood.

The men grew silent. Many edged towards the outer parapet, straining their ears. _SNAP!_ Another shriek rang through the air. _SNAP! SNAP!_ Another, and another until they all screamed in chorus.

Arya saw nothing through her looking-glass. The woods cast a large shadow, hiding whatever it was that encroached the castle. But the cries didn’t belong to a snared woodland creature. No living being could utter a cry of that nature. They were here.

Arya’s eyes darted skyward. Could they survive the Night King? She wasn’t ready. Had she been a soldier, she would have gladly ridden out to meet the Others in battle. But she wasn’t a lone wolf anymore. She belonged to a pack, and her pack needed her.

“Sound the horns,” she commanded. “Wake the castle. Gendry, go to the ballista and keep an eye to skies for the dragon. Remember, blind it, then take out its heart.

Gendry’s lips parted to say something, but he reconsidered. Grinning, he said, “I’ll try my best, my lady.”

Warmth spread up her cheeks, and a smile lit up her face despite everything. “I know you will.”

Without warning, he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. Taking pride in her stunned visage, he hurried off downstairs, a silent promise gleaming in his eyes. The remaining men on the battlement waited for orders, composed. Some snickered.

“All right, men,” Arya cleared her throat, trying her best to regain her authority, “Sling handlers, load the trebuchets! Hauling crew, in your position! Archers, in position!”

Her orders echoed along the length of the battlements as her generals parroted her. Sling handlers carefully loaded the pots of wildfire onto the slings and held them down. Five men made up the hauling crew for each contraption. They each grabbed one of the tethers dangling from short end of the beam. In front of them stood one archer. His arrows had been fitted with four-pointed caltrops instead of arrowheads. Dipping the caltrop-heads in pitch, they set them on fire.

Horns blared from the watch posts. Bells chimed through the castle grounds. Torches were lit. Everyone was out of bed. The castle came alive and its pulse reverberated through its stone walls.

Arya shut all of it out and steadied her breath. Her gaze shifted from the tree line’s shadow to the landmark that, by rough approximation, marked three-fifths of a mile. Leaning over the parapet, she strained her ears to make sense of the garbled growls, hisses and shrieks.

“Come on, you vermin,” Arya muttered under her breath. “Show yourself.”

Her hand itched to signal her men to fire. Deter the Others from drawing closer with a show of strength. _No,_ she firmly reminded herself, _they’re not that kind of enemy._

_A lady must always count to five…lest she find herself in the direst of straits._

_I’ll try my best, my lady._

The tree line’s shadow moved, like a dark tide pulling deeper inland. Though she’d been made aware of their arrival, Arya nearly jumped out of her skin when she made out the decrepit, rotting figures scraping and stumbling toward them like starved beasts who’ve spotted fresh meat.

“Archers, nock your arrows!” She lifted her arm up into the air. “Hauling crew at the ready!”

The undead were in full view now. Just not close enough.

_For the pack._

_One…_

_Two…_

_Three…_

_Four…_

“Hauling crew,” Arya shouted, swinging her arm down. “Fire!”

In unison, the hauling crew yanked on their tethers. The beam spun about the axle, and the firepot bounded across the night sky.

“Archers, fire!”

Aiming for the pots, the archers loosed their arrows. The flaming caltrop-heads smashed through the clay pots, releasing a brilliant green explosion of fire. _BANG!_ Everyone on the battlement, including Arya, instinctually ducked for cover. The next moment, they were looking on in awe as it rained green flames on the encroaching enemy.

“Don’t just stand there!” Arya called. “Move the trebuchets. Reload and reshoot. Hup hup hup!”

They methodically launched firepots at regular intervals, creating a moat of green flames around the castle. Sam was right. The fire did not burn uniformly. Some batches burnt taller and some were more prone to spreading, while others burned dimly. For the latter, Arya and her generals ordered several rounds of firepots be launched at the same area. By the close of the hour, an impenetrable wall of flame had been raised to keep the Others at bay. The few wights who had snuck past were promptly shot down with dragonglass arrows.

The emerald fires raged on. Arya looked on in awe. It had worked. For the time being, that is. Sam had told her the fire would go on burning so long as there was snow to burn through. He had said there could be anywhere near a hundred and fifty feet of snow in the northern wild. Places frequented by people like Wintertown—they’d have less.

She had time, she knew. But this was just the beginning.

***

“Ah, fuck!” the Hound spat. “I never thought I’d live to see this shite twice in a lifetime.”

Sansa and her ragtag band of companions sat atop their agitated steeds, mouths agape at the great river of green flames encircling Winterfell and ensconcing all of Wintertown. It was the early hours of morning. The sun had no yet risen as such, but they were so close to home, Sansa insisted they get an early start.  

“Wildfire…” Sansa mumbled to herself. She remembered speaking to Arya about it while recovering in her birthing bed. “But Arya’d only use it if…”

Her attentions shifted beyond the flames, trying to make out anything out of the ordinary.

“We need to get to cover,” she said, voice heavy with fear. “Arya’d only light the fires if the whitewalkers were coming.”

They had intended to enter Winterfell through the East Gate through Wintertown. Sansa led them off the King’s Road, to the South Gate. Towering green flames blocked them here as well. Sansa’s mind raced. There was the Hunter’s Gate to the west, but if the whitewalkers were descending from the north, trying to get into the castle, they’d be well on their way to surrounding it. At the South Gate, they’d have more time. But time was of no use if they couldn’t get inside.

“Bran,” Sansa whimpered pathetically. Around her the Brotherhood stood on the lookout, their weapons at the ready. Beric Dondarrion’s sword burst into flame with a flourish of his hand. The rest had naught but blades of iron and steel—useless against the whitewalkers. “Gods, Bran please hear me.”

She spun around in search for something. Anything. The first rays of sunlight had begun dancing across the vast white lands, but the wildfire’s reverberating roar had drowned out something that always accompanied the rising sun: birdsong. Gathering her skirts, Sansa trudged her way to the nearest grove and searched the trees for birds. She stared at a family of finches long and hard, trying to meld herself with them as she had in her dreams, but had no luck. She needed to calm herself; a near impossible feat.

“Ser Clegane!” she stumbled over to him. “You’ve had visions, have you not? That night you found me at the Blue Fork, you saw something in the flames.”

The Hound bristled at this. Though he travelled with the Brotherhood, he was not entirely sure if he had faith in the one they called the Lord of Light.

“How does it happen?” Sansa pressed. “How do you know when to look?”

“You’re better off asking one those nutters,” he said nodding at Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myrrh a few paces away.

“Sandor, please!”

“I don’t know, all right?” he snapped. “It’s just the flames…you hear its song, and it pulls you in deeper until it plucks you from your ass and takes you there.”

Sansa nodded, eyes trained on the green flames ahead. “These visions…do you ask to see them? Your Lord, I mean?”

“He’s not my Lord,” he scoffed. “But, aye. He comes to me when—when I need some prodding down a given path.”

Hearing what she needed to hear, Sansa bounded down the drop to the plains where the fire waged. She tuned out her companions’ hollers to stop and instead channeled all her focus onto the dance of the green flames.

_Old Gods or new,_ she spoke to the flames, _I am a woman of faith. You returned my husband from the dead. Now, I ask this of you._

She was so close, the flames could lick the wool of her cloak if the wind whipped it astray. Sparks shot from it. Sansa did not flinch. The flames’ tips flared up to greater heights. Sansa remained unmoving. She heard it—the faint song hidden within the cacophony of roars. Her senses sharpened. The scorching thunder faded away. And she heard nothing but song. Her muscles unfurled and she breathed the easiest breath she had since she was snatched from Winterfell.

Her eyes rolled back and she was nestled in a thick clump of leaves someplace high.

***

Rickon’s eyelids drooped with sleep. Val had insisted he go down to the crypts with her and wee Robb when the horns sounded, but he couldn’t leave Bran alone in the Godswood. He spent all night sitting in the cold, gripping a dragonglass sword, trembling at the sound of every green explosion outside the castle’s walls. All the while Bran drifted in and out of visions, looking more annoyed every time he returned to his senses.

Rickon’s stomach growled. The sky had grown lighter, fading out the sinister green glow that had scared sleep from his eyes all night. He wondered if it was unlordly to seek out food in the kitchens amidst all the chaos. _No, I’ll wait a while longer._

His gaze turned skyward as a charm of finches flew in from the south and purposefully spiraled into the Heart Tree. Their chatter persisted as they rustled within its leaves. Then, without warning, they burst forth, swatting him away and frantically pecking at Bran.

Bran, wrinkling his nose, returned from his vision and tried to shield himself from further assault. With the exception of one landing on his lap, the rest of the finches fell away and stood waiting around the two brothers. Rickon tried shooing them away, but they retaliated with dry coughs and sharp pecks.

“Bran!” Rickon’s voice cracked. “Are you hurt?”

Shaking his head, Bran stroked the finch sitting on his lap as though speaking to it in its own language. He closed his eyes again. His head fell back once more and his lids unfolded to reveal nothing but white behind them. The bird on his lap sprang up into the sky. The others followed. In another spiral, they rose higher than the weirwood trees and returned south.

Rickon crept closer to Bran, wary of rousing his ire by startling him out of his vision. Blood trickled from the scrapes where the birds had attacked Bran. Gathering the sleeve of his tunic in his palm, Rickon reached out to wipe it off. Before he could even touch his brother, however, his pupils returned to their normal Stark brown. Bran squeezed his eyes shut and abruptly jerked his head.

“Bran…”

“Sansa,” he hissed in discomfort. “She’s outside. She can’t get through.”

“She can’t…” Rickon choked. “She’s dead. You said…everyone said…”

“Rickon,” Bran pleaded in a hushed voice. “The Others. You need to bring her in.”

Rickon’s heart pounded in his ears. _Sansa is alive. She’ll keep us all safe._

Sniffling ever so slightly, Rickon squared his shoulders. “Where did you see her?”

***

Gendry and Sam wheeled the tubed siphon from the smithy to the courtyard. From the glasshouses, Rickon and Brienne wheeled in barrows full of sand and dry earth.

“I’m telling you, Maester,” Gendry clicked his tongue. “You did well with the pulley slings, but you must’a missed something in the drawings for this here siphon.”

“I’d copied them line for line, word for word,” Sam retorted tersely. “And if Sansa really is out there, we’d best get it to work.”

Glaring at Sam, Gendry stoked the fire under the tube’s first chamber with a smith’s bellow. Rickon and Brienne filled the first chamber with sand and dirt. Then, turning a wheel attached about midway along the tube, the valve separating the first and second chambers was shut. With a piston, Sam vigorously pumped air into the chamber a number of times before telling Brienne to reopen the valve.

Nothing.

“Close the valve again.” Scuttling to the tube’s front nozzle, Sam stuck his hand into it. “Master Rickon, give the pump a press, won’t you?”

Rickon complied.

Sand peppered against Sam’s hand. “Well that there’s your problem isn’t it? The valve’s not tight enough.”

“Is that right?” asked Gendry testily. “Well, maybe the sizes on your drawings weren’t right.”

“How long will it take to fix the valve?” Rickon bellowed. He was red in the face, his slight frame rattling so much he looked ready to shatter. It had almost been half an hour since Bran had had his vision.

“I’ll—umm—“ Gendry looked down at his boots, ashamed. “I’ll coat the sides of the valve with some wax. It shouldn’t take long to toughen up in this cold.”

Brienne put a reassuring hand on Rickon that relaxed him a smidgeon. “Thank you,” he said to everyone. “Please hurry. We need to bring my sister inside.”

He wanted to say something more lordly like his father or Robb or Jon would have, but he was lost for words. He only shook his head and kicked the siphon’s wheels.

***

The sun had fully risen. Sansa’s head was still spinning from warging. She had seen Bran, felt him following her back to the grove, but nothing had come of it. The wildfire raged on, even spreading in certain places. Sansa knew it was foolish to insist her companions remain exposed as they were. Torrhen Square to the south-west was the nearest stronghold after Winterfell. There was no telling if they’d make it that far with the whitewalkers on their tail, though. Still, it seemed a better plan than waiting it out in the open, completely vulnerable.

They were so close. Beyond that dense wall of fire, somewhere within the castle walls, her baby boy waited for her. She knew she was no good to her son dead, but no amount of sense could keep her heart from splintering. She just couldn’t imagine being parted from him again.

A thunderous blast overpowered the storming crackles of fire. Sansa’s gaze snapped in its direction; around and about where the South Gate was. But everything seemed as it had been.

_BANG!_ Several moments passed. _BANG!_

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the Hound said with an astonished chuckle.

Sansa followed the direction of his pointed finger. She still couldn’t see anything. Climbing onto higher ground, she saw a dent in the flames.

_BANG!_

The dent extended towards them, slowly forming a narrow path through the flames.

“Come on, then,” the Hound signaled the men forward. “Move your arses!”

_BANG!_

On being pulled ahead, the horses reared up on their hind legs and tried to tug free from their riders’ grasp.

_BANG!_

A thick shower of sand and dirt squelched the last thicket of fire along the path. Wheeling out a curious tube-shaped contraption came Brienne of Tarth and three very heavy set men.

“Come on, you stubborn sons of bitches!” the Hound yelled, struggling to get his own steed under control.

“They’ll never make it through,” Sansa shouted over the commotion. “Set them loose. SET THE HORSES LOOSE!”

Undoing the harnesses and unsaddling the creatures, Sansa and her companions sent them galloping into the southern wilderness. Sansa did not want to think what would become of the poor creatures if they didn’t run fast enough.

“My lady,” Brienne called out to her, bowing hastily. “Come with me.”

Behind her, the three men from the castle had turned the device around, and were in the process of pouring sand into the grand tube.

“No, get these men through first,” Sansa said, motioning towards the Brothers.

“My lady…” Brienne began, but she was no fool. The passage was already beginning to narrow on the far end.

Sending the contraption ahead to clear the path, Brienne herded the Brothers without Banners through in a single file. Sansa waited till they were all through; everyone but herself and the Hound.

“You go on ahead, little bird,” the Hound said, his face tensed. His gargantuan body leaned away from the flames, yet his eyes could not look away. As if doing so would bring him the greatest punishment he dared imagine. “I reckon I’ll take my chances with the undead fuckers.”

Sansa yanked on his hand. “Listen to me, Sandor, it’s going to be all right. Do you trust me?”

The burns across his face grew more prominent as he warred with himself.

“Sandor, do you _trust_ me?”

He pulled his hand from her grasp and shielded his face and torso with his cloak. “Come on, then. Get in front where I can see you. Don’t want to be burning that pretty face of yours.”

Huddling before him, Sansa shielded her face with her arms and ran through the flames.

_BANG!_

The way was clear, but the heat... _Seven hells, the heat!_ Winterfell looked like a river of molten rock, taunting her with its proximity but impossibly far at the same time. The edges of the path wavered unpredictably. She tried to be precise in her movements, but with her vision near blinded green, she did not know if the next step would bring her one step closer home, or one step closer to certain death. Bile rose up her throat. Her heart was ready to burst from her chest. _Just keep running. Keep running._

And then, just like that, a wave of cold air washed over her face. She heard the indistinct racket of men lowering the portcullis and bolting the gates. Shaken to her core, she sank to her knees, buried her gloved hands in the dirty snow, and hunched over in shock.

She was home. _Alive_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, Sansa's home! So this is going to be the last chapter for 2017. I'll catch all you lovelies in 2018 with the final chapters. Wish you all a Happy New Year!


	30. Of Children and Men (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Others chip away at the Starks' defenses of Winterfell. Jon gets his thirst for vengeance under control, and sets out to make one last stand against the Night King.

Sansa couldn’t believe it. She was home. The dread of burning in wildfire still drummed in her ear. The reason for her relief, her joy during what seemed to be the end of the world, eluded her as she prostrated in the slippery mud.

A puff of air caressed her face.  A white cloud of softness stroked her sooty cheek. Sansa wrapped her arms around it on instinct and nuzzled into Ghost’s neck. Something between a sob and a sigh racked her chest. Yes, she was home indeed.

“S-Sansa?”

Sansa looked up to find Rickon approaching her hesitantly, Shaggy Dog not far behind him. Still on her knees, she shuffled forward and opened her arms out to him. “Rickon! Oh, Rickon, thank the Gods you’re safe!” She peppered his elated face with frenzied kisses.

When they both rose to their feet, Sansa gasped in awe. “Look how tall you’ve grown!”

“Aye,” he confirmed with a sheepish grin. “I’m taller than Arya now. Nicked Needle from her once—when she wouldn’t let me train with the others. Held it out of her reach. She was livid.”

Sansa stuttered out a giggle in between her sobs. “Where is she? Where’s Arya?”

“Right here,” came a voice from behind her.

Arya stood waiting, composed and dignified with her hands folded behind her back. She looked the spitting image of their Lord Father. Like him, she bowed her head in welcome and gave her a measured but warm smile. Dark circles had formed under her eyes, yet they still possessed the spark of her little sister’s spirit and they gleamed with tears of joy. Sansa strode over to her and drew her into a tight hug. _You’ve done beautifully,_ her loving silence said. _Thank you…for fighting for our home._

Drawing apart after a long spell, Arya’s frame grew rigid as she looked past Sansa at the Hound and the Brotherhood Without Banners. Then her eyes dropped to Sansa’s clothes…or Littlefinger’s, to be precise.

Following her sister’s scrutiny, Sansa pulled Littlefinger’s mockingbird broach from her breast and handed it to her. “He’s dead. The clothes were my only way out.”

“Like changing faces.” Arya turned the broach over in her hands.

“Like changing faces.”

They exchanged sly smirks.

“Maester Ruhskin,” Sansa continued. “He’s one of Littlefinger’s men.” Turning to Brienne, she ordered, “I want him thrown in the dungeons.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Sansa remembered Ser Jaime’s affections for Lady Brienne as she watched her hulking figure head towards the Maester’s Turret. She wanted to tell her that she’d met him. That he’d renounced his allegiance to Cersei and had played a crucial part in negotiations at the Vale. Hopefully, there would be time to speak of such things.

Turning to Arya again, she said, “You made wildfire.”

“Well, I didn’t. Sam did.”

Sansa followed Arya’s pointed finger and saw a portly man with an endearing face who wore a heavy chain with a single link about his neck.

“Your ladyship,” he said with a bow.

“Maester Tarly,” Sansa smiled. “It’s good to see you. I can see why Jon always speaks so highly of you..”

His cheeks reddened. “I do my best, your ladyship.”

“How long do you think the fires will hold?”

“There’s no telling, really.” He shifted his weight between legs. “Could be till nightfall. Maybe longer.”

“We’ve still got a few pots of wildfire we can use,” Arya added. “But the snow will melt out all the way through soon. And tiny cracks in the wall of fire _will_ start forming.”

Sansa heaved a sigh. “What portion of the undead do you think the fire will kill?”

“Next to nothing. They may be undead but they’re still rigged to survive. They’re all waiting for the fires to dim. Come, see from the battlements.”

“I will,” Sansa said. “But I want to see Robb.”

Rickon took her hand. “I’ll take you to him.”

Sansa’s heart beat in her throat as Rickon led her across the abandoned grounds of the castle to the crypts. The small, rounded, and contented, if a little sullen, face of her beautiful boy flashed before her eyes, stirring a mixture of joy and pain within her that threatened to burst her entire being. Nearing the the staircase to the crypts, she felt something warm coursing through her: the promise of being whole again.

But there was also fear. Fear that it was all just a cruel trick. That she’d lose it all over again. This may not have been the first time she’d been taken from her home, but, for reasons unknown to her, this homecoming felt more strenuous than when she and Jon had recaptured Winterfell two years ago. Sansa supposed it was easier to make-do with changes when one was young. It made her wonder how her son had adjusted to the change of being without a mother.

The crypts were bustling with the agitated chatter of women and children. Infants yowled in their mothers’ arms. Children chased one another to the sharp reprimands of their wardens who tried shoveling meal into their mouths. The deep hollow chamber quieted as the armed guards outside pushed the heavy stone door open for Sansa and Rickon. After a moment’s stunned silence, the women whooped and pumped their fists in the air. Their Lady was alive and well! Some thought she’d brought King Jon with her…and the dragons. “Gods be good, we’re going to survive this, ye hear? We’re going to survive this!”

They inundated her with questions. Her handmaids darted past her to the kitchens to ready her a bath. The smallfolk grabbed her hands to draw strength from her, told her of their prayers and woes in a discordant chorus. Sansa obliged, feigning interest, offering reassuring smiles. All the while, her eyes combed dark cavern in search of her baby boy.

“Sansa!”

Sansa craned her neck and looked this way and that for the voice’s owner.

“All of you, hush!” The voice bellowed. Feminine but imposing. Unmistakably Val. Her pale braids appeared then disappeared amidst the women crowding about Sansa. After much shuffling and bickering, the wildling woman push her way through to Sansa with Robb cradled to her hip.

The sight of him knocked the wind out of Sansa’s chest. A little past his first name-day, he was much larger than when she had seen him last at six-moons, but still small. Her precious pearl. He was the spitting image of Jon with a headful of tight raven curls, and keen and perceptive – though violet – almond-shaped eyes fringed with thick black lashes that touched the top of his lids. Leaning his weight into Val, he observed the newcomer while suckling his finger.

“Oh—” Sansa’s lips trembled. They pulled up in a wide smile—the first in many moons—and rushed to scoop him from Val’s arms. “My sweet boy. Oh, my sweet baby!”

He clutched Val’s chest with his tiny fist and whimpered in protest.

“Mama’s missed you so much, baby. So much.”

Ignoring his tight-lipped protests, Sansa threaded her hands under his arms and held him to her. Uttering an anguished cry, the boy reared away from her, his arms held out toVal. His face colored and fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Robb, darling,” Sansa beseeched. “Robb, it’s me, your mother.”

He screamed with greater furor.

Val caught hold of him just as he was about to leap from Sansa’s embrace.

“Robb…” Sansa mumbled. Her heart splintered as Val bounced him on her hip and his cries faded. “It’s me…Don’t you…”

“He’s not taken to strangers, is all,” Val explained. Leaning forward, she added, “I made sure to mind the folk he mixed with. Just like you wanted.”

_He’s not taken to strangers._

_Strangers._

Sansa stood there, frozen. Hrorik’s words came rushing back to her: _He may look like his da but a babe’s but the reflection of his mother’s shadow._ Staring at Robb in that moment, Sansa hated Jon. Hated him for leaving such a prominent seal on their son while she had nothing. Despite having given birth to the boy, there was no trace of herself on him. Not even the slightest recognition. How could he be a reflection of her shadow if he didn’t even know who she was? She felt ill. And the looks of pity the women gave her were unbearable.

“Thank you, Val. For watching over him. I’m forever in your debt.”

A sympathetic smile graced Val’s lips. Sansa feared she could saw turmoil she hid underneath the mask she wore. “Just give him some time, Lady Snow.”

_But what if we don’t have time?_

Fighting back her tears, Sansa clamped her lips in a taut line, nodded to herself, and addressed the entire crypt. “Good women, now is the time to keep faith and have heart. I’ll be by again once I’ve had a chance to meet my brother, and see to the brave men and women handling our defenses.”

On the ground-floor landing, Sansa shut her eyes and drew in a long breath of cold air. It reeked of rotten eggs because of the fires. Sansa’s temples throbbed at having to endure the smell. Sensing Rickon at her side, she murmured, “Where’s Bran? Take me to him.”

Dutifully, Rickon led her to the Godswood. Some of the men had come down from the battlements to break their fast. Sansa felt their eyes follow her. Some stopped in their tracks, or stood from their seats to bow in greeting. The others, too tired and anxious from the night’s maneuvers, did not have the strength to mind their courtesies. A sad smile pulled at Sansa’s lips. She thought of Cersei and how she would have punished her men for such insolence. She thought of the outpouring of love shown her down at the crypts. _I made them love me._ That wasn’t so bad, was it?

The Godswood had a calming effect on Sansa. The fanciful part of her liked to believe the rustling in the leaves overhead were actually her ancestors, her parents, and Robb speaking their words of wisdom. She believed they were the Old Gods singing songs of the time she stripped down to her shift to retrieve her sewing box from the depths of the hot springs; the time she prayed for Jon’s seed to take root inside her as he made love to her under the Heart Tree; or the time she swore an oath to be his wedded wife. She may have lost her shadow’s reflection but there was no denying she had lived.

Bran’s head was slumped against the back of his wheelchair. Another vision, no doubt. Standing before him, Sansa brushed a lock of his unkempt hair from his forehead. Crusted blood from the larks’ pecks rendered his ghostly palour even more prominent. A thin layer of frost had collected along the collar of his cloak, which only covered half his torso. Sansa brushed off the blackening blood off his cheeks, then pressed her palm against his forehead.

“He’s burning up. How long has he been out here?”

“Since the horns sounded last night,” Rickon replied, a frightened quiver in his voice. “I wanted to take him down to the crypts before I saw to the siphon, but he refused.”

“We need to get him inside.” Going around the wheelchair, she grabbed hold of its handles. “Rickon, run ahead and get Maester Tarly.”

The wheelchair did not budge when she pulled on it. Planting her feet, she gave the contraption a sharp jerk. Bran’s head lulled forward.

“Sansa,” he stated.

Rickon skidded to a halt and studied his brother in the hope he had not truely fallen ill.

“Yes, Bran, it’s me.” With another sharp lurch, Sansa freed the wheels from ice and got them moving. “I’m taking you inside.”

“No.” He sounded dazed. “I can’t stay.”

“Of course, you can’t. You’re running a high fever. Rickon…Maester Tarly, hurry.”

“Sansa, stop.”

“I’m moving you and that’s the last I’ll hear of it.”

Bran’s torso jostled from Sansa’s efforts to wheel him through the snow. “The boy…he didn’t recognize you.”

Sansa stilled.

“There’s not much time. You’d fair better mothering him than wasting your attentions on me.”

Shoving the wheelchair back where she found it, Sansa circled around it to face him. “Why?” Sansa growled. “Have those visions of yours shown you anything of real consequence? Or do you just relish haunting dreams that don’t belong to you like some degenerate?”

“I have,” Bran said, plainly with expressionless eyes. “Which is why I can’t stay…here, in Winterfell.”

“You warged into those larks! The enemy is at our gates! There’s no place to be _but_ Winterfell.”

“The dead will breach the castle. They’re going to destroy everything…everyone. I have to destroy what’s keeping them alive.”

“The Night King?”

Bran shook his head. “They’re a boat afloat in water. I have to puncture a hole in it so it sinks.” Sansa could have sworn she saw a flicker of fear in his otherwise dead eyes. “I can’t stay.”

“Bran, you’re not making any sense.” Sansa grabbed his shoulders. “You have to find a way to keep the Others out of the castle. This is our home.”

Bran didn’t seem to hear her. As though continuing a wholly different conversation, he said, “Tell Sam…tell him that his time has come.”

“Bran, I can’t go about telling men that! Please, tell me where you have to go. Tell me what we should be doing.”

“Sansa,” he said firmly, “I have to go.” He beckoned for Rickon to stand beside Sansa so he could see them both. “I’m sorry I’m not the Bran you loved. I remember how fond he was of you, and Jon, and Robb and Arya. But I remember too much else to ever be Bran again. I couldn’t if I tried.

“It’s a cruel fate—not being master of your own mind. There are times I wished I never climbed that tower; that I never sought the Three-Eyed Raven. But I can’t change any of those things. I can only see the worth in the life I have—what my greensight allows me to do. I have to go. It’s the only way. Please.”

Looking heavenward, Sansa bit her lips in frustration. Instinct told her to wheel her fever-ridden brother inside, but if Bran was Winterfell’s only chance at survival, preposterous and vague as it was, she would have been remiss not to take it.

Shaking her head, Sansa wrapped his cloak about him tightly and made sure it would not unravel. “If you’re certain this is the only way. I’ll send for someone to build a fire by your feet.”

“Thank you.” He looked long and hard at his eldest sister and younger brother, as though struggling to place where he recognized them from. Gripping the chair’s armrests, he squeezed his eyes shut. His breaths quickened and his entire frame clinched. A moment later, his head fell back and his eyes opened to nothing but white.

***

The aberrant storm of thunder and snow persisted. Jon kept to his rooms despite a return of strength and presence of mind. He was kept informed of what went on about Eastwatch. Reports from the top of the wall were always the same: the severe weather made for poor visibility, but no white walkers were sighted within the limited range of that which was visible. Through Ser Davos, Jon ordered archers and spearmen – as many as the weather permitted – be stationed at the top of the Wall. The Night King had a dragon now. His first line of offense would be by air.

Jon’s choice to remain secluded was no longer challenged. Daenerys had tried to visit his chambers when he was in the throes of delirium, but Ser Davos had spun a tale of Jon falling through a thin sheet of ice while ranging and catching a deadly and contagious fever. With fatal sicknesses sweeping through her ranks, Daenerys believed him and abandoned further efforts to see Jon. Jon tried to make the most of this time to himself; to loosen grief’s hold over his heart, and restrain fangs of anger salivating for Daenerys’ blood.

He reminded himself he was a mouse in the snake pit, that northern justice carried no weight to foreign soldiers. He reminded himself he served the living, and that avenging the dead would not only break that oath, but dishonor Sansa’s life’s work. Even now, his wife’s words in their marriage bed rang loud and clear in his ears. There was no way the Night King could be defeated unless he worked alongside Daenerys.

Some five days after his health had been restored, Jon sent word he’d like to join Daenerys for supper. The storm continued to rattle the castle’s foundations and engulfed everything in blinding flashes of light every so often. Jon smoothed his disheveled hair and tied it in a tight bun. He smiled at the thought of Sansa remarking on how long his hair had gotten and wondered if their son had gotten her silken red locks. He caught himself from thinking further. Heart clenching, he had to grab on to the reading desk to keep from falling from pain.

How could he face the woman who murdered his wife and child?

Supper was to be served in the sitting room outside Daenerys’ chambers. She was curled up in thick black furs by the fire when he entered, her usual adornments of Targaryen red sashes and chains of silver missing. Her cheekbones looked sharper. Dark shadows had formed under her red-rimmed eyes. Jon’s breath stilled when she turned her violet gaze his way, afraid she sensed the venom he wished to sting her with.

“Is that really you, Jon?” She rasped.

“Aye.”

She extended her hand to him. “Let me see.”

Jon placed his hand in hers and winced as she gingerly stroked the outside of his palm.

“I heard you…crying out in your sleep, but Ser Jorah said it was unwise to enter your chambers.”

“You did well to listen to him.” Jon couldn’t bear to look at her. He reclaimed his hand and settled into a seat facing away from the fire. He thought taking refuge under the shadow of the chair’s tall back might save him from being betrayed by his emotions.

They were silent for a time. When Daenerys spoke again, her voice was hoarse. “I lost another fourteen men today. Nine yesterday. They came here for _me_ and now they’re all.. _._ I can’t bear to watch them suffer like this.”

“I know.” Jon leaned into the light where she could lock eyes with her. “I would’ve felt the same in your place.” After a pause, “I would’ve also considered retreating. Someplace that suited the men better…where they could recover.” He swallowed at the gamble he was about to make. “I won’t think less of you if you wish to return to Dragonstone.”

Daenerys scoffed. “So they can sing songs of Daenerys the Craven?”

“There won’t be anyone to sing songs,” Jon said gravely. “You saw what the Night King’s capable of.”

Bringing her fingers to her mouth in thought, Daenerys looked at the fire. “Will you come with me?”

Jon broke into a cold sweat. Had he miscalculated? “No,” he said ruefully. “My place is here. Until the very end.”

She nodded, an exhausted but serene smile playing on her lips as though she’d already known his answer. She tightened the furs around her shoulders and leaned back with closed eyes. From her deep breaths she almost looked like she’d drifted asleep. Her eyebrows pinched together as she said, “Even if I could forget what happened to Viserion, I’d never be able to forget the heart I lost here in the north…to you.”

Jon felt the watery potato peel soup he’d had for his midday meal burn his throat. He wished to overturn the table between them; scream the truth at her. Tell her he’d never return her feelings because of what she did; who she was. He wanted to have her thrown in the ice cells and dragged to the middle of the yard at daybreak where he would drive Longclaw through her neck. He retreated to the safety of his chair’s shadow, seeing nothing but red.

“Do you truly mean that?” His voice was gruff from immense self-control.

“I could’ve died thinking of the pain you were in these past few days.”

“I was.” Memory took him back to the fireplace in the Lord’s Chamber at Winterfell, where he had presented Sansa with her dagger. Had she tried to defend herself with it when she…when she—Jon’s chest lurched painfully. “I fear…I fear I won’t be cured of this until I see it all through.”

“What do you mean?”

“The men won’t survive much longer. Those who won’t succumb to the sickness will likely starve. They’re growing desperate, the men. Stealing rations from the stores, from their own brothers…Soon they’ll be driving spears into one another. We have to make a move. And we have to do it soon.”

“But you said we’d have greater odds defending the castle than—”

“I know what I said, and I still think that’s true. But if the Night King hasn’t come yet…” He rapped on the table three times in gratitude, “…he’s likely not coming anytime soon. The free folk always said the Night King brings the storm with him. It would’ve given him the perfect cover to attack us off guard, but he’s not here.”

“Shouldn’t he have breached the Wall already if he—“ Daenerys gulped. “If he raised Viserion.”

“Aye, which makes me think there’s something else keeping him at bay.”

“Well, if they can’t come across, we should just leave them be.”

Jon scowled at her. “With respect Your Grace, I don’t think you’ll find your reign as harmonious as you imagine knowing your kingdom was in imminent danger. Besides, surely it’s occurred to you that the Night King might be keeping away because of your surviving children.”

Daenerys’ eyes shone bright in anger and fear.

“You say Rhaegal always quarreled with his brothers, and Drogon would set the world afire to protect you. Isn’t it possible the Night King fears they’ll ruin his one chance at the realm of the living?”

“So what are you suggesting?” she snapped. “That I leave my sons here and return south? That I risk them flying beyond the Wall on their own in my absence?”

“Not alone. We’ll be with them. Along with however many healthy archers and spearmen are able to accompany us atop each dragon.”

“Jon, you’ve gone mad! If you think I’m going to go along with this after what happened to Viserion, then you’re mistaken.”

Slamming his hand on the table, Jon roared, “If it weren’t for you, Viserion would still be alive!”

Stunned, Daenerys opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words.

Jon’s eyes watered as he tried to soften his voice. “You charged at them despite their advantage in cloudage. Reigned fire on a near invisible army. You – _we_ won’t make the same mistake again.”

Her mouth twisted in a suppressed reproach for his insolence, Daenerys’ breaths grew labored. She rocked slightly as his words sank in.

“We do this – we kill the Night King,” she finally said. “And you’ll come to King’s Landing with me?”

Clenching one fist on his lap, Jon extended the other across the table to cover her hand with his. “I promise you, Daenerys. I’ll be with you till the very end.”

The storm continued for another three and a half days. The morning after Jon and Daenerys’ private supper, they informed Ser Jorah and Ser Davos of their intentions. While the latter remained quietly apprehensive, Ser Jorah did not hesitate to voice his sharp disapproval. Of course, he had no choice but to listen to Daenerys. Punishment for disobeying Daenerys was being branded a traitor and sentenced to the ice cells. Since outright denial of his queen’s wishes wasn’t an option, Ser Jorah incited disquiet among the men, discreetly spreading word about the odds being impenetrably stacked against them.

As it became apparent when the storm broke, all his efforts were superfluous. Drogon and Rhaegal refused to be mounted by anyone besides their chosen riders. Ser Jorah had hoped this would have dissuaded Jon and Daenerys not to go through with their plan. For a time, Jon himself questioned flying into enemy territory without reinforcements, but his disdain for living in such close quarters with his family’s murderer won out. He wanted to be done with her. Either die or go home to grieve his wife and son in peace.

Despite the skies clearing and an overwhelming desire to act, Jon tarried a few days to think things through. After much back and forth, he convinced Ser Jorah to provide Daenerys with some rudimentary sword training, and teach her how to load and fire a cross-bow. For himself, he had a number of horse saddles melded and adjusted to hold dragonglass headed spears, a crossbow, and an ample quiver of arrows. He also had a sennight’s worth of rations for Daenerys and himself packed up in a saddlebag that would be strapped to the dragons.

“You’re not planning on making off, are you?” Ser Davos said in jest when Jon gave the order.

“If the Night King takes any more of the dragons down, we’re going to have to have to make our way back on foot.” Jon chuckled darkly. “If he lets us live, that is.”

“Try not to get yourself killed, aye, lad?” The old man squeezed his shoulder, eyes moist with a mixture of foreboding and pride. “Lady Stark would’ve wanted you to return home. Even with her gone.”

Jon bowed his head and nodded. He remembered his punishment. He wasn’t going to cheat his way out by dying. “If I don’t come back—”

“I’ll hear none of that.”

“ _If_ I don’t come back, I want you and Ser Jorah to put the men on ships and sail for Dragonstone. Tell the Imp to take them back across the narrow sea upon promise they’ll all be slain by the Night King if he doesn’t.”

“And if you do come back?”

“We’ll cross the bridge when we get there.”

Despite settling preparations for the excursion, something or the other came up and their departure kept getting delayed. Nobody expected Daenerys to become an adept fighter within the span of a few days. Certainly not Jon. But that didn’t stop Ser Jorah from leveraging her inexperience against their undertaking. His doggedness grated on Daenerys’ nerves. It became too much before long, and Daenerys decided there was no use in training. Drogon would have to suffice as her one means of defense.

With her hasty training ended, there really was nothing more keeping them from leaving besides fear. In the face of certain death, Jon assumed Daenerys was in need of base comfort one night when she stole into his chambers. She paid no heed to the door she left unlocked. Jaw clenched and lips squeezed like a drawstring purse, she strode over to him.

“My children weren’t always the imposing creatures they are now,” she said.

Jon let out a long breath of relief. He wasn’t keen to lose his temper and reject her advances again.

“They were soft. Vulnerable. Their stomachs felt like lush velvet when they were hatched.” Eyes downcast, she splayed her hand across Jon’s chest and let it drift lower, down his ribs, just to the left of his navel. Two fingers jabbed at the spot sharply. Tears that clung to her lashes caught the warm light of a candle burning nearby. “This is where their hearts are.”

Momentarily forgetting the heinous crimes she had committed, Jon regarded her with pity. He doubted any man could feel otherwise for a mother abetting in the slaughter of her own child. Then, in a blink, the feeling left him, and he listened with disdain.

“Their front legs…” She ran her palm over his torso and burrowed under his arm where she caressed the curve of its pit. “They’re soft here. No scales. Easy to penetrate. An arrow struck Drogon there once. It took him a time to heal.”

Removing her hand from him, Jon encased it in his own, and placed a kiss on her knuckles. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“I—” She swallowed, shaking her head. “I won’t be able to…You’ll have to be the one.”

“You needn’t worry, Your Grace. We’re better prepared this time. Just a matter of minding our surroundings and remembering what we discussed.”

“I trust you, Jon. I know you won’t let anything happen to me.”

Jon didn’t have it in him to return her maudlin smile. He saw her out, snuffed out the candle by his bedside, and did his best to sleep.

At dawn, they set out for Starrold’s Point.

They had decided on signals to communicate with while airborne. If the weather showed the slightest sign of deteriorating, it was agreed they would halt their advance and remain grounded till a change in wind. They flew in close formation, with Rhaegal flying ahead so Jon could put his ranging experience to use and preempt an attack from below. In the event they encountered Viserion and the Night King on the way, Drogon and Daenerys would lure Viserion further up so Jon could deal the killing blow from below.

They flew low over flat terrain to delay knowledge of their approach. Greater altitude was required over the Haunted Forest, but they remained low enough for the tips of evergreen branches to scratch the dragons’ underbellies.

When the Haunted Forest gave way to vast plains swathed in white, and the coastal mountains of Starrold’s Point came into view on the horizon, Jon signaled Daenerys to head east while he steered Rhaegal west.

 _Quiet as mouse now, boy,_ Jon told Rhaegal. He felt Rhaegal’s deep breath hit him in the chest; his heartbeat slow with the creature’s. He felt the wind’s pressure whipping against Rhaegal’s splayed wings as they coasted over an enormous stretch of ice. His passing seemed no stranger than the stormy winds that swept these harsh winterlands.

A white walker in ice-wrought armor was bringing in a new recruitment of wights to the Night King from the south. The wights screeched and thrashed about with a hunger to savage the winged beast. Their warden stared a moment at Jon, then growled a contemptuous threat before abandoning the convulsing wights and bounding for the east coast.

Jon spurred Rhaegal further west. Setting them on fire would only inform the Night King of his approach. _Kill the sire, kill them all._ He would only be burning one thing today. Then it would all be over.

Rounding a cockerel shaped rock formation on the frozen lake’s bank, Jon wound Rheagar east through a mountain pass that, he hoped, would lead him straight to the summit where the Night King dwelled. His determination only strengthened when his ears registered a flurry of agitation in the distance. Through squinted eyes, he spotted corpse-like figures – half-chewed by rot yet formidably robust –  passing their javelots of ice amongst themselves and firing them. Their target: Drogon, who Daenerys had flown out onto the water. With his leathery wings, he splashed saltwater at frenzied wights on shore’s edge, breathed plumes of fire that didn’t quite reach them, and effortlessly dodged the javelots that came plunging his way.

Jon’s chest burned with the giant breath Rhaegal took, his heart and hands rock steady. His vision grew keener, and narrowed in on the figures whose backs were turned to him.

 _Dracarys._ He mouthed the words, but only felt the burn of fire in his throat. The burning walkers – there were three of them – stumbled around to face him, their faces frozen in shock as the fire consumed them. Beside them, their half-eaten destriers reared violently, tumbling down the cliff, breaking in two. _Dracarys._ Another great surge of fire and they were all shredded to ash.

The growls and cries along the coast continued. Daenerys flew Drogon overhead, and rained a storm of fire on them till the eerie wails – anguished yet gluttonous – were replaced with the truimphant roar of fire. The smell of rot and smoke singed Jon’s sense of smell.

Jon scoured the summit and the neighboring mountains, had Rhaegal set fire to any cavern he came upon to draw the Night King out. But he the leader of the undead did not show himself. Dismounting atop the summit he had just cleared of the King’s horsemen, Jon surveyed the fire below and took stock of the number of wights, charred and dismembered as they were. He was soon joined by Daenerys who seemed just as perplexed as he felt.

“Where’s Viserion?”

Jon chewed on his lower lip in frustration. “The Night King must’ve taken him.” _Along with the rest of the undead._

“Taken him?” Daenerys’ eyes grew wide with panic. “Where?”

Breaking free of Rhaegal’s predatory calm, Jon’s heart hammered violently against his chest. _The storm!_ The Night King had not brought the storm with him. He had used it as a diversion.

“Fuck,” Jon muttered under his breath. “FUCK!” The word carried through the mountains. _Fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck…fuck._

“Jon,” Daenerys pressed, her violet eyes shimmering with rage. The thin air up on the mountain had her panting. “Where’s he taken _my_ dragon?”

“He’s breached the wall,” Jon whispered, rubbing his hands over his face. Strangling a sob, he stalked over to Rhaegal. “He’s likely hit further west. We need to go. With any luck, once we’ve found the breach, there’ll be a trail of death and destruction that’ll lead us straight to Viserion.”

He shuddered to think what he would do if that trail lead him to Winterfell.

With Daenerys tailing him on Drogon, Jon spurred Rhaegal to fly as fast as he was able. They raced the sun on its westward arc. Jon’s vision was a pale yellow blur as the wintry sun climbed its peak over the unending sea of snow. Angry tears burned his eyes. Bile scorched his throat. Every drop of strength in him was expended in holding on for dear life, and struggling to breath through the piercing winds that threatened to knock him off Rhaegal.

Somewhere over the Haunted Forest, it succeeded; not in knocking Jon off of Rhaegal, but out of him. Feeling adrift, devoid of body, Jon turned his head this way and that for an explanation. To his bewilderment, Rhaegal swerved out of the sun’s natural path and sped north-west.

 _No,_ Jon pried his way into Rhaegal’s mind again, _South. South-west. Seven Hells, Rhaegal, turn! Listen to me!_

He felt himself being squeezed out. Not by Rhaegal, but something else. An intruder. Panting against the whizzing air battering his face, he tried entering with the utmost concentration. This time he was shoved out.

 _There’s only one path left for us, Jon,_ a familiar voice spoke. _Only one castle._

“Bran?” Jon hollered, his query lost in the wind. “Bran, no, what’re you doing?”

_Only one path, brother. I’ll fly you there._

In the distance, Jon heard Drogon’s angry roar, felt his hot breath on his heels as his mother spurred him on. When he overtook Rhaegal and screamed murder at his face, Rhaegal outmaneuvered him, struck a deep gash across his scaly face, and continued north-west.

There was no stopping Bran. Jon looked over his shoulder helplessly as the forest, the Wall beyond it and Westeros – his home – shrank out of view.

***

Sam was hit by an eerie recollection when he saw Lady Sansa bounding in through the South Gate and collapsing onto the grey sludge. He remembered Jon Snow riding into Castle Black, wrapped in wildling furs, with three arrows planted in his back. In the excitement of the moment, he could not make light of the strange sensation. Hours later, when the Lady had washed and changed into traditional northern garb, and seamlessly begun attending to the castle’s needs, he understood what it was. He was seeing his truest friend’s other half for the very first time.

Jon had always rejected his noble blood while in the Night’s Watch, claiming himself a bastard and low-life. But he had stuck out like a sore thumb among thieves, traitors, rapists, and fat-nothings like Sam, all the same. When Jon had admitted to laying with a wildling as a turncloak, Sam had difficulty imagining Jon ever being happy with a wildling the way he was with Gilly. Southron scruples and customs ran too deep in his veins. He was a leader by nature – Sam always knew that – but he was also a lord. And a lord needed his lady.

Up until then, Sam knew Jon had ties to the castle. Mistress Arya resembled Jon both in looks and hot-headedness, and Master Rickon seemed to share in his keen eye and empathetic nature. There was, of course, little Robb who was a chubby miniature replica of him. Lady Sansa’s arrival made something far deeper click into place. Yes, Sam had been living alongside Jon’s kin all this time, but it wasn’t until now that he _felt_ Winterfell was Jon’s one true home.

While breaking their fast together, Gilly had told Sam what had transpired between Lady Sansa and Robb in the crypts. He found that despite the cruel blow dealt her, Lady Sansa carried herself with grace and dignity. Duty came before her own needs. She made sure every man, woman and child received a proper morning meal before lifting a spoon to her own lips. Then, she assigned a sizeable contingent of women to aid the kitchen servants in preparing food that would last a few days. The rest of the women and children – her own included – she sent back down to the crypts.

Once the fighting men and women had dispersed as well, she summoned Sam to bring her up to speed on all she had missed in her absence. She listened intently, marveling at the newly built trebuchets and taking note of where all the combat weapons had been stowed; asking whether the precautions against leaks had been taken while storing the wildfire. Her brows pinched together in disbelief when he mentioned Bran’s insistence he repair the horn from the Fist in the midst of such a crisis.  

“Seven Hells, Bran!” Lady Sansa heaved a resigned sigh. “I _asked_ him not to waste his energy on frivolous fancies, but I suppose he really can’t control what he sees.” After a breath, her eyes fluttered open. “He didn’t tell you what it’s meant for, did he.”

Sam shook his head and shrugged.

Disquiet replaced her annoyance as her mouth opened in an unspoken question. Brushing the intrusive thought aside, she asked to be taken to the battlements.

Tiny pockets had begun opening up in the pungent green wall of fire. Fresh firepots were launched to close them, but the supply of wildfire would not last long. A few wights had already crossed through the fire. Archers promptly shot them down. By Sam’s estimation, Winterfell’s sturdy stone walls would hold against a whole army of wights. The giants were few in number and could be downed from a fair distance. It was starvation that was the castle’s true threat. That and an attack from the heavens.

By the following evening, they had expended the last of the wildfire. Wights filtered through the widening pockets in the fire wall. Sam shared every meal with Gilly and little Sam in the Great Hall, fearful that it would be their last. When the wights began piling over themselves to scale the outer walls, and the blows of the giants’ club sent tremors through the grounds, he escorted them down to the crypts himself.

He had given Gilly a long dagger to defend herself with, and had designed a slinged-sack to strap little Sam to her person in if she had to make a run for it. His own shoulders ached from the crossbow he lugged around everywhere.

“Just…” he whispered to Gilly at the entrance to the crypts. “I don’t know, just…”

Unable to voice the words, he pressed his lips to hers in a soaring kiss.

“I know,” she whimpered against him. “Stay alive for me Samwell Tarly.”

“I’ll do my best,” he answered, sharing a cheeky but nervous smile with little Sam. “It’s either that or die trying.”

With one last hug, he ushered Gilly and Little Sam inside. He spotted wee Robb at his wetnurse’s breast. Val sat beside them, quiver slung across her shoulder, arrow at the ready. A sigh escaped Sam. He knew Lady Sansa had not come down to the crypts since her first encounter with Robb. If only there had been more time.

At ground level, in the castle main, he found Lady Sansa on the first-storey ramparts, looking up at the battlements across the yard where Arya shouted orders to the men. They had killed some twelve giants and begun pouring pitch onto the piling wights to set them on fire. Soon they would have to resort to pouring boiling water on them to slow them down.

“The dead are the world’s only resource in endless supply,” Lady Sansa remarked morosely when Sam brought up the matter of numbers. “They’ll keep rising until there’s no fresh body left to die.” With a small voice, she added, “Jon’s our only hope now. But I fear…from Eastwatch…he and the dragons should’ve arrived by now.”

The implication hung between them. They both grieved in silence. To ease the pain, Sam shared his earliest memories of Jon with her: how he had stood up for him, and trained him, and talked rubbish with him while scrubbing the tables in the Great Hall. He then recounted how Jon pined for her all those years, how he almost abandoned his vows to ride out to King’s Landing after Lord Stark’s execution. Sansa in turn shared the story of how she and Jon were married, and then, at Sam’s request, detailed her escape from the Twins.

The night flew by aboard the wings of conversation. For a moment, the brightening pallor of the sky seemed to dampen the ominous note of orders being barked, and the unnatural screeches being issued beyond the outer wall.

 _Another day,_ Sam thought to himself. Another moment to share with his family. He rose to his feet and slung his crossbow over his shoulder to head down to the crypts.

A resounding _DONG_ made him stop in his tracks. _DONG! DONG! DONG! DONG!_

A skirmish broke out on the battlements as the bells continued their thunderous drone. “Dragon! dragon! Everyone get to cover! C’mon, move your arses, move, move, move!”

He turned to Sansa whose face had drained of all color.

“My lady…”

“It could be Jon,” she said.

“It can also be him…the Night King. You need to get down to the crypts.”

Sucking a steadying breath, Lady Sansa nodded, gathered her skirts and bolted down the rampart. Sam followed her downstairs, then sprinted to the collapsible shed in the courtyard where the ballista had been stowed. Gendry and Lady Brienne were already taking the shed’s walls apart. Clutching at his chest for want of air, Sam stumbled over to the armory and hauled out the weirwood arrows.

A cry – shrill as an eagle’s caw, guttural as a lion’s roar, piercing as a defensive snake’s hiss – pulsed through the air. Beyond the northeastern wall, the sky lit up in a brilliant azure. Brighter and brighter, before a tidal wave of blue flame came crashing over it. The ancient walls croaked and moaned, helpless against the flood of fire brimming over it. The air stank of scorched flesh. Fresh blue, near transparent, flames cascaded onto the castle grounds. Stone walls stood resilient against the rippling river, but within, wooden bannisters, pillars, furniture, weapons, and keepsakes burnt to ash.

A great shadow swooped over the burning castle. With it came a chill so potent, Sam thought all will to live may have been sucked from him. Beads of cold sweat streamed down his neck into his woolens as he nocked a man-sized arrow into the ballista. Gendry steered it in the direction of the beast while Brienne adjusted the bowstring’s angle. His hand on the snap lever, Sam squinted as he followed the glass-like dragon’s flight.

It bellowed fire onto the Great Keep, all the way down through the Sept to the Great Hall. When it pivoted to unleash another stream of fire over the stables, Sam took his shot…and hit its left wing. With a furious – but markedly distressed – growl, the dragon lunged at them. Leaping out of the way, Sam fell face-first onto the ground. He scrambled to take cover inside the Guest House. Frightened whimpers escaped him as he heard the ballista being crushed behind him.

Once behind the stone walls, he removed the crossbow from his shoulder, nocked the one arrow he’d had the foresight to bring, and aimed for the dragon. It was grounded now, its left wing greatly discolored around where it was hit. Uttering feral cries to stave off attackers, it curled its neck to remove the invading arrow with its teeth. The Night King sat atop him, unmoving…until he looked over his shoulder and spotted Sam.

Sam froze, his finger hovered over the snap of his crossbow.

 _Leave him, Sam,_ a ghostly voice echoed in his ear. It must have been cowardice. He tightened his grip on the crossbow. _No, Sam. Your duty lies elsewhere. Let him go. Your time has come._  

A sharp yowl broke the stare he had been locked in with the Night King. The dragon brandished its wings in a frenzy. Gendry had just speared its leg with a weirwood arrow. Lady Brienne followed suit by tearing a gash into its other wing with Oathkeeper.

_Now, Sam. Your time has come._

It wasn’t his conscience speaking to him. It was a man...Bran. It had to be.

In the whole time he had known Bran, he had only tasked him with one thing…   

Looping his crossbow over his shoulder again, Sam dashed through the Guest House into the adjoining corridor that ran past the library and the kitchens. Once out of the kitchens, he sped across the yard to the Maester’s Turret. Chest burning, calves searing with cramps, he climbed the steep flight of stairs leading up to the solar he and Maester Ruhskin shared for work. From his personal chest, he fished out the horn from the Fist.

_Now, Sam. There’s no time._

Standing at the solar’s open window, he wrapped his lips around the pewter mouthpiece and wound his fingers about his lips to form a tight seal. Drawing the deepest breath his wheezing chest allowed, Sam blew into the horn.

***

The dull dirge of flames and chaos seeped underground into the crypts. Collapsing structures above made it rain rubble on the distraught women and children awaiting their doom among Winterfell’s dead.

Sansa clutched Rickon’s hand in her lap as she maintained a façade of reassurance. Ghost and Shaggy Dog lay curled up by their feet. Their soft furs were a slight comfort to their tensed muscles. Ale was being passed around to ease tensions. The unyielding wails of infants was to be expected under such conditions, but now many young women with husbands and lovers fighting outside had also joined in. Sansa was painfully aware her son was close by. For a time, she believed she could weather this just as she had the Battle of Blackwater, but when she saw her son suckling at his wet-nurse’s breast, she knew she was no longer the same little girl…and that she was as good as dead.

“Shall we sing a hymn?” she asked, averting her eyes from Robb. Blinking back tears, she began:

_“Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_

_Save our sons from war, we pray._

_Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_

_Let them know a better day…”_

She choked on the words, and let the tears flow freely. With them, she shed the last tendrils of her will to live.

As if hearing her unspoken prayer, a great call issued from the heavens and jolted the crypt by its foundations. It was succeeded by a low hum that tugged at the heartstrings. Animalistic cries sounded in the distance. Rickon burrowed into Sansa’s side, no doubt awaiting the killing blow. The candles and sconces flickered a beat before the dark crypts lit up in blinding golden light.

Sansa felt the breath leave her body. She had never imagined it would be so painless—death. The cold dankness of the crypts lifted. Her heart brimmed with unspeakable pride and a warm sense of belonging. She waited for the cold to hit her again. For the numbness to take over. But she kept on feeling. So much that the tears she shed were not of misery, but of exhilaration.

The bright glow morphed into shapes. Of men and women, all possessing a familiar somberness to their features. Sansa’s heart stilled as she laid eyes on a tall, broad figure with a sharp nose and a stern edge to his jaw.

“Father?” She gasped, squinting her eyes. He seemed to be made of starlight.

He was joined by a woman with luscious waist-length locks. She bore a striking resemblance to Arya. Sansa had never met her, but there was no doubt in her mind as to who she was.

“Sansa, look!” Rickon cried, pointing at Ghost and Shaggydog. They were rubbing noses with a small, dainty-looking pup shedding specks of gold from her furs.

“Lady!”

The pup turned to her and giddily bounced on her hind legs. Sansa cracked a smile, strangely relieved that she had been granted death. She craned her neck, over her bewildered companions, in search of her mother…of Robb…or even Maester Luwin. But the shimmering gold faces belonged to strangers.

She approached her father. “Father, where are we? Will you take me to mother and Robb?”

He looked down at her and smiled that gentle smile of his that visited her dreams often. Then, without warning, he and the rest of the golden figures rose from the ground and vanished through the ceiling, taking all light and warmth with them.

Sansa’s heart fell. Teeth chattering from cold, she tightened her furs around her. The crashes and screams of decimation continued up above. She was still very much alive.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovely readers! Yeesh, these chapters are getting harder and harder to write. But soldier on I shall. Hope this was worth the wait. I've also noticed a hike in kudoses of late, so hello to new readers! Feel free to say hi in the comments! I love hearing from you all (writing is really lonely. I require sustenance).


	31. Of Children and Men (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran takes Jon and Daenerys to uncharted northern territory. Ghosts of Starks past come to Winterfell's rescue.
> 
> CW: Major Character Death(s)

Wherever it was Bran wished to take them, Jon knew they’d never get there in time if Daenerys and Drogon kept thwarting their progress. It was wrong to blindly lead them so deep into the unforgiving wilderness, of course. Had Jon been in charge, he would have grounded Rhaegal to explain—as much as one _can_ explain one’s brother’s sudden inclination to take them as far from the conflict as possible—the change in plans to Daenerys. But he had no more control over Rhaegal than he did over the passage of time. _Gods, Bran, I hope you know what you’re doing._

Winter days being as short as they were, they lost light shortly after changing course. The darkness quelled Daenerys’ agitation to some extent. Drogon flew stealthily and tailed Rhaegal closely. Well into the early hours of the evening, Jon made out a body of water snaking across the Haunted Forest and noted they were crossing the Antler river. A few hours later, the tall evergreens opened out to a short expanse of flat terrain that was disrupted by a range of mountains. The range of Thenn, Jon knew, lay further west. _We’re in uncharted territory,_ Jon thought, picking out landmarks in the dark.

Rhaegal swooped and swerved through the peaks. While Jon held on for dear life, he also thought it curious the sudden movements didn’t upset his stomach. In fact, despite the day’s exertions, Jon felt remarkably vivacious. He wasn’t tired or hungry or even cold. An outlandish arrogance coursed through him. One that went hand in hand with great power. Observing Drogon’s calculated and elegant maneuvers through the range, Jon wondered if Daenerys felt the same.

A windblast hit them as they broke free of the mountains. The unending stretch of white they breached seemed to have no end. Jon wondered if they were headed to the edge of the world. He rested his weight on his elbows, and let his muscles relax as he listened to the steady flaps of Rhaegal’s wings. His newfound confidence assuring him he would sense the enemy from miles away, he drifted in and out of a light slumber.

The sky glowed a faint pink when he came to. On the northern horizon stood a lone blot. It was a mountain, its base oblong and its summit flat. The flashes of rock that peeked through the heavy blanket of snow was a unique shade of black…like dragonglass. A mixture of excitement and foreboding curdled in Jon’s stomach. Why would Bran bring him here when he already knew they had enough dragonglass to arm an army? There must have been something else here. Something that would end the Night King once and for all. _Gods, Bran,_ Jon thought for the umpteenth time, _Please know what you’re doing._

They were within a stone’s throw of the base of the mountain when Drogon cried out in protest. His great black wings were splayed and turned out to still his momentum, and his middle was curved inwards like he was one twist away from flying in the opposite direction. With a stern set to her jaw, Daenerys brought him under control and urged him forward. Jon spotted a glow of infallibility about her. There was something about this place…something powerful enough to spook Drogon.

Rhaegal landed smoothly and extended his arm to let Jon down. His eyes—Jon noticed—were not their usual amber but a pale blue. Craning his long serpentine neck toward a fold in the mountain, he hissed warm smoke onto the snow.

Daenerys dismounted and splashed through melted snow to come to Jon’s side.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” Jon said, transfixed by the gleaming black rock being unearthed. “But it seems my brother thought the dragons would serve best here.”

“Your _brother_?” The effort to sound indignant didn’t prove fruitful. She seemed just as engrossed in what Rhaegal was doing as Jon.

“He’s warged into Rhaegal,” Jon explained, motioning at the dragon’s pale eyes.

“ _Warged,_ ” Daenerys tested the new word on her tongue. “But what for?”

Jon approached the bare rock face. “Not to eat kidney pies, I reckon.”

Inside the fold, Jon ran his hand against the wet rock. “What is it you want me to see, Bran?”

The motion of his palm dislodged a pebble the size of a silver stag. Jon examined the rock surrounding it. Its surface wasn’t continuous like the rest of the rock face. It looked cracked. Wedging his fingers through a gap, he pulled out another slab.

“They’ve been piled up to block something…”

He began clawing them away. Daenerys aided him, surprising both herself and Jon, with the ease with which she moved boulders half her weight. A dark cavity yawned open before them. Faint whispers drifted out from within. Recognition flashed across Daenerys’ face. Her breath hitched as she shot a nervous look at Jon. “You’re not afraid?”

“You don’t have to go inside,” Jon replied, curious about the strange familiarity with which she regarded the cave. “You can stand watch here. Sound a warning if you see anyone coming.”

“No, I’m coming with you.” A smile teased her lips as she climbed through rocky mouth.

They landed on the other side with a _clop._ The sound echoed down a narrow passage. Palming the walls, they felt it curve. The light from the entrance diminished the further they went along, and the whispers grew louder. While Jon had packed a flint in his saddlebag, he was presently kicking himself for not bringing a torch and some spare woolens. He stepped carefully and strained his ears for tells of a lurking foe.

The passage kept coiling. Their path lit up in a deep blue glow. It seemed to pour in from thousands upon thousands of gatekeeper’s hatches fashioned with pointed semi-circle tops that were embedded into the walls. The whispers were now joined by every imaginable sound—horse hooves, a woman’s moans of ecstasy, clashing swords, blaring horns, rioting men, a babe’s cries, shrieks of horror, roaring fire…

Jon peeked into the nearest hatch. He saw a port in early spring where a fleet bearing the Greyjoy Kraken was berthed. Beyond, in the distance, a decaying city rose from a pit of stone. He was overcome with a sudden urge to throw himself into the murky waters. He looked away immediately, and strode ahead with his eyes firmly trained forward.

Daenerys was far more composed. She strolled along, without so much as glance at any of the hatches, as though she had seen it all on numerous occasions. As though she walked through the home of her childhood. Her pace quickened when a billowing veil appeared around another bend. Running her fingers along the supple sheet of ice, she drew it aside and slipped past.

They were some place warm, in a lavish tent furnished with exotic throws and cushions. Seated on a rustic cot shrouded in Meerenese silks was a mountainous Dothrak the likes Jon had never seen. His fat braid snaked over his shoulder and lay coiled in a pile beside him. Cradled in his arms was a tiny babe, his hair a silken brown specked with gold, and his eyes indigo.

“Drogo,” Daenerys murmured with a shaky breath. Speaking a flurry of endearments in Dothraki, she flew to him, embraced him, and cooed over the babe.

Jon beheld the scene with mounting rage. He didn’t know Daenerys had borne a child. The revelation doused his wounded heart with salt. _I’ll never know what it’s like to hold a son in my arms_ , he wished to scream. _I’ll never know because of you._

Before he grabbed for Longclaw, he stormed across the tent and slipped past the next curtain.

He was in Winterfell’s courtyard, outside the stables. The woodwork about the grounds wasn’t pristine as he had left it before sailing south. Things looked worn and lived-in. It looked like home. Jon’s breath faltered at the sight of a brawny young man approaching him. His Tully blue eyes twinkled under a mop of sweaty auburn hair. The warm and confident smile that adorned his strong jaw sent Jon’s heart into a flurry of long-forgotten jealousy and happiness.

“So you found your way back after all, Snow.”

Gods, he looked so young. Jon encircled his arms around him in a hug. “It’s good to see you, Stark.”

Drawing apart they both chuckled with glee. “It’s high time you came back,” Robb said, grasping Jon’s shoulders. “Can you believe it? All these years and our wish is finally coming true. We’ll ride side by side, you and I…the sons of Ned Stark. We’ll bring the Lannisters to justice and return order to the Seven Kingdoms. They’ll sing of us for centuries to come.”

Jon felt like a bird whose wings had been clipped mid-air. He scrutinized Robb’s face with sorrow. Jon would have given anything to give in…to stay. But this wasn’t real.

Shrugging free of Robb’s hold Jon headed to the next curtain.

“Snow! Where are you going? Sansa and Arya…we need to bring them home.”

“Arya _is_ home,” Jon replied, more to himself than to Robb. A dry sob tore through his chest. He could not say the same for Sansa.

He kept moving through a plethora of places, catching glimpses of familiar faces. He wanted to stop at every turn and accept the invitations—silent and vocal—to stay. To live in the comfort of lies. But nothing was as powerful as the promise he had made Sansa: to go on fighting for the living. To honor what she stood for.

After what seemed like hours, he was restored to the dark. The floor inclined and the path’s spirals shrank. Eventually the tunnel opened out to a great circular chamber impaled by a pale blue crystal column. Spikes of obsidian imbued with the bluish-white crystal jutted from the walls. This must have been where Night King obtained his dragon-slaying javelots.

Neither Jon nor Daenaerys dared venture too close to the column. Its silent invitation to be approached seemed a little too appealing for their gut instincts. There were markings etched on its surface—an ancient language of spirals and dashes—illuminated by light from within the structure.

A green shadow passed through it. Then again. Jon looked up its length and recognized the flickering green form as Rhaegal. His image had bent through the crystal from the skies. Stepping a little closer Jon studied the region where the column met the floor. It was tiny—nearly a speck—but there was no mistaking the deep red glow of fire. They were standing inside a Fire Mountain. The crystal column had been wedged into its vent.

“What is it?” Daenerys asked, riveted.

“Someone’s idea of toying with nature,” Jon replied, circling the column, making sure not to cut himself on the protruding knife-edges. “It’s either going to help us or kill us.”

“But what are we supposed to do?”

“Only one way to find out.” Jon reached for Longclaw but reconsidered. Wrenching a spike from the wall with near no effort, he touched its tip to the column. A smatter of ember fell from the spot. He dragged the spike over the crystal again. Another shower of embers. Next, he struck the crystal with force. The ground gave a lurch, and a brilliant fire lit the tip of the spike.

Jon exchanged a look of disbelieve with Daenerys before laughing. “This is it!” he howled in excitement. “Gods, Bran, you’re a bloody knight in shining armor!”

Setting the flaming spike aside, he tore another elongated piece of rock and struck its tip to the column. Another violent jolt underfoot. Another blazing flame. Daenerys followed suit. Soon they were sweating from all the flames they lit.

Jon’s brows knit with doubt when they ran out of room to stow their new weapons. “There’s no way we’ll be able to carry all of this out. Not in ten years.”

“I didn’t think we were,” Daenerys said pompously. “We’re near the top of the mountain aren’t we? We’re going to break it. Really, Jon Snow,” she said playfully, “you know nothing.”

Though jarred by her proclamation, Jon couldn’t think of an alternative. They hurried back down the mountain, closing their sights and minds to all the temptation its many chambers threw at them. When they emerged out in the open it was still daybreak.

“It can’t be,” Jon said. “We’ve been inside for hours.”

“Or days,” Daenerys mused. Asking him to hasten with a look, she mounted Drogon and flew him west.

Rhaegal’s eyes had not yet returned to their natural amber. To Jon’s relief he was still able to squeeze himself into the confines of his mind. He directed the beast up and east. Putting a few leagues between the mountain and themselves, Jon turned Rhaegal around and pushed him to fly faster than he had ever flown. The air left Jon’s body as the creature sped towards the mountain. Through his teary vision he saw a black blur headed for the mountain from the west.

 _With the thick of your skull, boy,_ Jon thought, laying himself flat, pressing a cheek to Rhaegal’s scales, and tucking his chin into his neck.

_SMASH!_

_SMASH!_

Jon tumbled down the length of Rhaegal’s spine in a storm of rubble. Clawing onto some bulging scales, he clung for dear life until the beast attained some height and slowed.

A giant crater had been hammered into the eastern ridge. The spikes they’d lit still burned through heaps of rock. The crystal column had snapped in half. the top half crashed to the side and rolled across the fire, down the slope.

Daenerys had aimed lower, dealing another blow to the column’s structure—one that reverberated down to the mountain’s base and through the plains surrounding it. Fissures cracked open in the ground, swallowing snow and bearing red tongues of hungry fire. Black clouds encroached the early morning sky, and a distant cry—unmistakably dragon—pierced the air. It wasn’t Rhaegal or Drogon. Jon and Daenerys’ heads snapped south.

A winged creature hovered over the horizon like the white moth of death.

***

The horn rattled in Sam’s grasp, threatening to shatter like glass in a bear’s hands. Its blare pulsed through his hands, harder and harder, as he expended his breath. His hands grew numb like they existed apart from the rest of him. His blood sang out with such fervor his skin felt ready to burst.

He struggled to draw another breath. Every muscle was wrung taut. He clamped his lips about the mouthpiece. He had to try…once more…if it was the last thing he did. The next blow sucked him dry. His throat constricted, head spun, and vision dimmed. His mind wished to fall, but his feet remained firmly planted on the floor.

The distant growl of the Night King’s dragon reunited his disjointed halves. Tearing the war horn from his lips, he looked about absentmindedly. If the dragon still lived, what had Bran intended the war horn’s call to do? Desperate, with hot tears streaming down his cheeks, he rifled through the solar for a solution—a weapon he had overlooked, or an offhand note he had made…anything.

A jolt to the turret threw him off balance. His heart caught in his throat at the high-pitched screech of a thousand nails scratching dragging down the outer wall. The solar shivered and slanted as the stone walls accommodated climbing claws. Underpinning it all were erratic, gravelly huffs.

Sam tried to keep his boots from skidding down the newly inclined floor. Swallowing his screams with every claw thrashing the walls, he tried to tip toe to the stairs.

An orb of molten blue appeared through the eastern window. The black slit slicing up its length narrowed before being replaced by rows of teeth. A roar ripped through the chamber and the ominous blue glow blossomed in the beast’s throat. Then it all disappeared, and a buck to the turret sent Sam flying onto his back.

Flipping onto his stomach, Sam tried clawing his way out to the staircase. The turret lurched and issued a guttural cry as the dragon’s teeth punctured the roof and tore it off. Sam shielded his head with his hands. He felt the beast’s breath seep through his furs, its contemptuous gaze searing a hole in his back as its snout dove to claim him.

He rolled out of the way just as its snout crashed into the floor. Reeling its neck back, it took aim again. Sam rolled again, right into his crossbow. Pushing himself up against the wall for protection, he adjusted the bow on the bowstring. His finger hovered over the snap.

The dragon reared its head from the solar once more. This time it pumped its wings a few paces back. The bluish glow deep in its throat brightened, ready to engulf the chamber in fire.

Sam steadied his breath, aimed at the Night King, and pressed down on the snap.

He missed.

He was going to die burning. Just like his father.

Reeling from the crossbow’s kickback, Sam dropped the weapon and stared the Night King in the eye.

The fear of imminent death, of losing all he held dear, fell away. Something shifted. The reservoir of fire waiting to bust from the dragon’s mouth retreated. The beast lengthened its reptilian neck and cried out in alarm. The Night King hunched forward, clutching at the dragon’s scales as though he had been struck in the gut. His neck snapped north. By the time he remembered Sam, it was too late. The dragon had already changed course, and he was bounding away from the castle.

 _Bran_ , Sam thought in awe.

He grabbed the war horn. Despite his slack muscles, he forced himself to his feet. His knees buckled and his head spun. It wasn’t his balance. It was the lopsided turret, swaying in winter’s unforgiving wind. Scrambling up the incline to counter the downward pull, he edged out of the solar and hurried down the stairs. Once the floor evened, he peered out of a tiny stair-side window.

The castle—the library, the armory, the Great Keep, every corridor connecting them—was ablaze and overrun with upright corpses. The remaining northern warriors were surrounded by fire on three sides and wights on the fourth. Each wight killed was replaced by four more. The men and women would grow tired. Two paths were left them: surrendering to the undead or choosing death by burning.

Still, Sam could not feel despair. He felt content…like he had long ago at Castle Black when Jon rallied their fellow brothers against Alliser Thorne’s ire, and he realized he had made a friend; his first true friend. The ice dragon’s power over him melted away. He felt warm…at home.

Through the curtain of fire, an army in golden armor penetrated the white walkers. Sam thought the flames played tricks on him, for the golden army—men and women alike—were clad in nothing but plain clothes and bore no weapons. They launched into the enemy headlong, leaving a trail of shimmering wolves galloping after them, spreading through the undead like spilt Arbor gold. Predatory snipes were drowned out by a chorus of ghostly huffs that united in one resounding howl.

Their brilliant glow outshined the fire. Northern fighters and southern allies looked on, dumbstruck, as broad strokes of gold levelled the undead. Somewhere among the flitting saviors, Sam spotted Jon. He seemed broader of build, perhaps taller, but the somber brow perched atop eyes of a single-minded resolve was unmistakably Jon’s.

 _He made it,_ was Sam’s first thought. _And he’s brought the Targaryen Queen with him._ But there should have been two more dragons. There should have been Dothraki and Unsullied among the golden ranks. He only saw people who bore a strong resemblance to Jon—north folk. Starks.

Sam’s heart sank. _It can’t be._ His eyes sought the northman again. _Not Jon. Please don’t be Jon._

***

Sansa only allowed a few of the torches and braziers in the crypt to be relit. With no idea how long they would be trapped underground, she thought it best to preserve the stock of pitch and firewood for as long as possible.

A growl permeated through the walls, sending a chill up their collective spine. Sansa pulled Rickon to her chest and buried her face in his hair. Whimpers of half-forgotten prayers echoed through the tunnel, kindling the despair inside everyone present.

“It’s over,” a hoarse voice declared, dubiously steady. “There’s no savin’ us now.”

“Jyn, calm yerself,” another woman implored. “Now’s not the time.”

“I will’na let them turn me inta one o’ them, I won’t!”

“Jyn, stop it! Jyn, no!”

Sansa watched, frozen, as the tanner’s daughter, Jyn Crenna doused herself in pitch. “They’ll no’ ‘ave me become one o’ them.”

“Jyn!” Sansa cried, forcing her way through the panicked women and children. “This is madness. Stop!”

“No, milady, I’m the only one tha’s go’ any sense left.” She reached for a torch. “You love yer son, don’t ye? What kind of a mother are ye, huh? Risking the little lor’s soul ta be snatched so his body’s the plaything of ungodly powers?”

The girl brandished the torch at everyone. “If yer all half as smart as me, ye’ll do as I do now. It’s either burn or betray yer folk by joinin’ the undead. There’s no other way left us.”

“Jyn, please…” Sansa begged.

“I’m sorry, milady,” the girl said, smiling. “Yer a good mistress, but this once, I will’na listen to ye.”

Before Sansa could snatch the torch from her, the girl turned the flame to her breast. Sansa screamed, instinctively clutching for her as though she could pull her to safety. Strong arms caught hold of her and yanked her away. Wrapped in wildling furs, one arm snaked around her as her legs gave way. Together, they sank to the floor. Sansa heard Val’s cool and collected voice in her ear. “Look away, Sansa.”

Violent spasms coursed through her. Sansa nuzzled into Val’s arm and wept. She did not know how long she stayed that way, nor did she care if the undead took her right there and then. She had failed, and she did not have the will to convince herself otherwise.

“They’re at the door,” Val whispered in her ear, a note of fear in her voice.

Sansa raised her red, swollen eyes from Val’s fur and looked to the crypt’s sealed entrance. The rest of the women had fallen silent as well. Not a soul dared breathe. Straining her ears, Sansa heard scuffling and scratching accompanied by a cacophony of male voices.

Her heart near leapt out of her throat when the door gave a lurch. Unsheathing Jon’s dagger from under her skirts, she rose to her feet and looked to the other grown women to do the same. Weaving her way through to the entrance, she briefly glanced at her son. He was asleep in his wet-nurses’ arms, his rounded cheek askew and mouth slightly parted from pressing against her breast.

With a shaky breath, Sansa squared her shoulders and addressed the crypt. “Flesh and blood of the north, it has been an honor serving as your lady. For my last command, I ask—I ask you all to have courage. And to know you die fighting for life, and there is no greater call one can answer.”

A sharp _crack_ elicited a gasp from Sansa. A flurry of voices—voices of living men—streamed through. The heavy door groaned open, revealing the guards who had been posted outside…and Maester Tarly.

Uttering a squeal of relief, Gilly bolted past Sansa and flung herself at him. Sam’s taut face relaxed. He poured his all into kissing her, and placed a loving kiss on little Sam’s forehead before turning to Sansa.

“My lady,” he panted. His eyes looked ready to bulge out of their sockets. An awestruck smile tugged at his lips as he waved a war horn in the air. The muscles in the hand that clutched it twitched. It must have taken a great deal of strength to carry it.

“Maester Tarly, the dragon…” Sansa pressed. “Arya…is she…?”

“A great many are dead,” Sam said somberly. “But Mistress Arya escaped. She’s in the courtyard with—I thought it was Jon, but I th—I think it’s your father.”

Ignoring the excited murmurs that erupted in the crypts, Sansa hurried out and up the steps. She stopped in her tracks at the landing. The grounds were scorched. The armory and its connecting halls had been level. Angry sprays of fire billowed from the Great Keep’s windowss. The outer walls to the north-east had been completely razed. There were dead bodies everywhere, some fresh and of her own people, the others strangers who were frozen in a state of partial rot.

Her mind scattered like one does the ashes of the dead. Her beloved Winterfell…what was she to do without it? How would her people ever recover from such calamity? Maester Tarly placed a firm hand on her back, guiding her through the destruction, preventing her from unmindfully walking into the fires. Hurried crunches of boots approached them and Rickon appeared at her side. His hand replaced the Maester’s at her back.

At the courtyard’s threshold, a lightning of gold shot to Sansa’s feet and pulled at her skirts. Lady. Sansa felt her plight melt away again to be replaced by a warm sense of security. She raised her gaze from her long lost wolf pup to her father. Happiness scratched at her defenses, and yet it all felt false.

His head was bowed as he spoke to Arya, who was much shorter than him. Lowering it even further, he touched his lips to her forehead. Specks of star light trickled from where they touched. They drifted down and evaporated on Arya’s convulsing shoulders. Clean, moist streaks shone on her soot-blackened face when she drew away.

“Father!” Rickon called, abandoning Sansa’s side to run to him.

Her father chuckled as the boy latched onto his waist, sending a cloud of gold into the air.

Sansa resisted Lady’s tugs and stood at the edge of the courtyard, stone-faced. To have her happiness snatched from her again would have been unbearable. She had half a mind to leave.

“Not yet, Sansa.”

She stopped cold and followed the voice to its owner: her aunt, Lyanna.

“You mustn’t leave, Sansa…Not before I can thank you.”

Lyanna Stark was several years younger than her—a girl. She was also, Sansa reminded herself with a clenching heart, Jon’s mother. “Th-thank me?”

Her aunt had the look of a callow girl admiring a queen in an exotic dress and jewels, but the hand that caressed Sansa’s cheek possessed the warmth of a practiced mother. “You kept the promise your father left unfulfilled. You took care of my Aemon.”

Sansa’s brows knit. She shook her head.

“Jon,” Lyanna said, smiling at her slip of tongue. “My son. You protected him, loved him…you gave him the life I always wished for him.”

“I wish you could know him,” Sansa said, covering Lyanna’s hands with hers. “I wish I could know you.”

“You do,” Lyanna said, her brilliant eyes dancing, “Jon is a reflection of my shadow. He will always be.”

A smile cracked Sansa’s grief-hardened face. With a teary sigh, she surrendered to Lyanna’s hug. When they drew apart, Sansa felt her father’s eyes on her. He held out his hand for her. Trudging through the mud, Sansa daintily pressed her palm into his, but she couldn’t bring herself to look at him.

“My brave daughter,” he said in that voice that always put her at ease as a child. “I’m so very proud of you.”

“Father.” She leaned into his chest and basked at the way his warmth tingled her skin. “I’m so happy to see you here at the end of everything.”

“End?” Ned asked, stroking her hair. “Child, this isn’t the end. It always seems so, but it isn’t. You will rebuild the castle, stone by stone. One day you’ll hear your children’s laughter ring through its halls. You’ll see. You need only remain strong.”

“But I’m tired of fighting.”

“I know, child. I know. I’d move mountains so you didn’t have to endure life without me and your mother.”

“Then stay.”

“I will, but not like this.” He tilted her head up by her chin. “The dead mustn’t roam among the living.”

Sansa lowered her gaze and nodded.

“I’d like to ask your forgiveness, Sansa,” he said. “And Jon’s…for what I did…for sending you both away.”

A fresh wave of tears stung her eyes. “It was what circumstances demanded of you.” She stroked his weathered face and memorized its golden features. This, and not his head mounted on a spike, would be how she remembered him. “I forgive you. Go in peace.”

Breathing an almost melodious sigh, he bowed his head to kiss her forehead. Then, taking a few steps back, he nodded at Maester Tarly who had been watching with rapt attention. Not entirely sure what the elder Stark wished, Maester Tarly fidgeted a little before looking down at the horn he held. He traced an invisible line along the instrument. With one definitive press of his thumb, the horn cracked.

A gentle breeze blew through the courtyard from the north. It swept the specks of gold shaping the Stark ancestors with it, little by little. Ned, Lyanna, and Lady disintegrated into incandescent swirls floating south. Sansa followed their trajectory.

The serene smile etched on her face fell when she spotted a golden figure standing by the Bell Tower. He was a very tall man, lean of figure. He looked mostly Tully, but the set of his jaw was morosely Stark. The eyes, which Sansa had grown accustomed to being impassive, now possessed their old cheeky, but keen glimmer. He beamed at her, gave her a good-humored nod, and began tearing at his golden seams.

“Bran!” Sansa cried.

He went on smiling till the very end, until there was nothing but darkness left in his wake. Sansa gathered her skirts and dashed to the Godswood. Arya, Rickon, and Maester Tarly weren’t far behind.

The fire Sansa had ordered to be lit beside Bran had long gone out. His furs hung loose at his sides and his face, neck, and hands were covered in a thin sheet of ice. His head rested on the back of his chair as it did when he surrendered to his visions, but his eyes were their normal dark blue.

He didn’t respond to their impassioned calls. Maester Tarly couldn’t find a pulse. Her chest racking with dry sobs, Sansa sank to her knees and gently closed Bran’s slack mouth. She rubbed her thumb over his icy cheek, searched eyes for the tiniest reaction, but he looked through her.

“Oh, Bran,” she whimpered, smoothing his hair, caressing his rigid hair. “I should’ve heard you. Why didn’t I hear you?”

She felt the Arya and Rickon’s at her sides. Huddling together, they rested their heads on their dead brother’s lap and wept.

***

The mountain rocked with a fury. Black rock crumbled and shifted under Rhaegal’s feet. He spread his wings to balance himself just enough so Jon could slide down his arm to the crystal chamber. Clearing the flaming spikes of rocks, Jon grabbed two as tall as himself and handed them to Daenerys atop Drogon.

“Fly ahead of me,” he called over the land’s deep rumbles. “We’ll carry out what we’d planned for Starrold’s Point.”

Tucking the spikes under her left arm, Daenerys nodded and clicked her heels.  Jon stumbled back as a large segment of rock came apart from the intensity of Drogon’s leap into the air.. Fishing out two more spikes, Jon mounted Rhaegal and made him swoop down to level ground before following Daenerys south.

The gaping fissures followed them, merging together to form what seemed a portal to the Seven Hells. The sweltering hot steam the ground hissed out gave Jon enough cover to approach the Night King unseen. Behind him, blasts sounded from the mountain. Clouds of pungent soot spurted from the crystal chamber, and a dim yellow glow shone at its rim. _The greatest fire the north has ever seen,_ Jon thought to himself wryly. _Who will live to tell its tale?_

With Viserion and the Night King coming within range, Rhaegal dipped into a fissure and latched onto the jagged ground in wait. Overhead, Drogon bellowed a stream of fire at Viserion, who countered it with one of blue. Angling Drogon’s body upright, Daenerys flung a flaming javelot at Viserion. It missed. But it served its purpose. The Night King was now headed up to the heavens in pursuit of Drogon. Viserion cried out in frustration, the flap of his wings labored. He was injured, Jon saw. On both wings. One blow was all it would take to bring him down.

His grip on his spikes tightening, Jon bid Rhaegal to spring from hiding. Higher and higher they shot up. The view of Viserion’s underbelly—marked with the gruesome tear of the ice javelot that killed him—crystallized. Clamping Rhaegal’s neck with his thighs, Jon leaned back and, with two hands, erected both spikes into the air.

Bowing his head, Rheagal beat his wings down, thrusting the rest of himself, and Jon, into his brother’s stomach. An deafening scream filled the air as Jon plunged fire into ice. The obsidian sliced Viserion’s armor of frozen scales as if were a spoon scooping through a bowl of meal. A surge of blue flames burst from his scales. Rhaegal yanked himself away just in time, dodging the mass of brilliant blue dropping from the sky.

All of sudden, Rhaegal bucked his head and shrieked. The lower half of his body dipped from a forceful blow. Pain shocked Jon’s body rigid before Rhaegal shut him from his mind. Jon twisted around and froze. The Night King was crouched on his haunches at the base of Rhaegal’s tail. He had his hand buried in Rhaegal’s flesh where the spine would have been. Blood oozing from the open wound turned black. Green became imbued with slick blue, and grew cold against Jon’s thighs.

Swaying atop the creature about to turn, Jon slid up Rhaegal’s neck. He reached the spike heads under the juncture between head and neck, and ran them across with a swift stroke. Inky darkness sprayed onto his face. The beheaded neck went slack. Jon’s slippery hands scrambled to cling to something, but he lost his grip.

He was falling.

Though the downward pull sucked the wind from him, he maneuvered his weight; kept his back to the fiery mouth about to swallow him, and splayed his limbs out wide. His eyes remained trained on Rhaegal’s falling corpse.

_Come on, cocksucker! Show yourself!_

As if hearing his challenge, the Night King dove off Rhaegal’s limp wing, straight as an arrow, ready to gouge Jon’s eyes out with his bare hands. Crumpling his face in a prelude to a beastly howl, Jon drew Longclaw from its sheath and impaled the Night King headfirst. A searing shock ran through the blade into Jon’s arm. He did not yield his grip. Cracks appeared in the Night King’s rigid body. And then he shattered into a million shards of crystal.

A shooting burn speared Jon’s left eye. His vision turned red. Wind pattering against his ears forced a distraught numbness upon him. The cacophony of red-tinted colors he fell away from—black pitch raining down from a roaring cloud of luminous blue fire—was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. The most beautiful thing barring a tall auburn-haired girl in a green dress approaching him on a snowy night. He shut his eyes and turned his palms out in surrender.

 _I am the sword in the darkness…the watcher on the walls…shield that guards the realms of men…Jon Snow, bastard of House Snow and Targaryen. King of the North._  

His back crashed into something solid, but the flames did not lick his skin. Small, soft hands encircled him, and scared whimpers puffed against his ear. He was still moving. But not in descent. Prising his eyes open, he caught a glimpse of silver hair. Past it, the world seemed encased in a murky dome of fire and blood.

_Your watch is ended, Jon._

“Bran,” Jon moaned in delirium.

_Let go. Come with me. Your watch is ended._

“No,” Jon mouthed, choking on the thickening black smoke. “Sa’sa…I promised…I have t—”

Red warmth flooded his vision. A bitter chill took hold of him and his head fell back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, Jon's not dead. I just needed to end the chapter :) But yaay, ding dong the Night King's dead!! It was great to hear from so many new readers last chapter. *Blows kisses to all my readers* You lovelies are wonderful. I wouldn't have been able to get this far without you!


	32. The Lost King's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon passes his sentence. The North recovers from the Long Night.

_For the watch_.

The face of a pasty, bitter-looking man loomed before Jon, then was replaced by that of boy. Memory anticipated a blade entering his chest. For his body to go numb from shock, and for darkness to silence the tumult of thoughts swirling in his head. He wished to cry out for help, but his mouth was dry. It felt full of sand. Agonizing heat pulsed through his flesh. The hard surface he lay on quaked without respite.

His eyes were sealed shut with a dry, clotted crust. Efforts to pull his lids open were answered with waves of searing pain that shot down to his stomach, making him bilious. His screams were drowned out by the deep, distant rumbles. He remembered falling in a reddish black mist, the wind swirling ash all around him.

Pulling his gloves off, he palmed the surface he lay on. Rock. It was jagged, and slippery. Which meant snow. Patting his surroundings, Jon carefully rolled away from the thundering sounds until his bare palm landed on a soft, cool heap. He clumsily packed one of his gloves with snow, and buried it inside his cloak until he felt it soften. Then, holding the glove’s mouth over his eyes, he poured freezing water onto them. The ensuing sting elicited a ringing howl.

The crusted mucus and blood loosened. Jon melted more ice in his glove and kept pouring until it had all washed away. His left eye socket burned with the fire of the seven hells at the mountain air’s touch. He would have screamed even more had his throat not been coated in gravely, foul-tasting soot. He could make out a murky red-hued light but he saw nothing.

Flipping onto his stomach, he retched. When the bout of sickness passed, he rested his forehead on the ground. His left eye hurt too much to even blink. Applying pressure with his palm to cover it hurt even more. Panting against the gravel, he untied one of his vambraces, and used its inner curve to shield the left side of his face. Unhindered by its pair, his right eye saw everything clearly.

His first impulse was to call for Ser Davos or Ghost. Maybe Tormund. There was another he trusted…a man in black. But he could not recall his name. Besides, none of those men were likely to answer now. He was not in some dilapidated castle on the fringes of the realm. He was…where was he?

A flash of metal caught his eye. A sword. Its hilt was fashioned to look like a white wolf. Jon unconsciously clenched his fist, feeling the ghost of its weight in his grasp. He had wielded it in battle. A battle before which he had kissed a beautiful red-headed woman in a grey cloak. _Jon,_ she had sighed. It was his, the sword. Fighting to keep his footing on the shivering rock, he stumbled over to where it lay.

 _Sansa_. The name clicked into place in his heart. His wife. His reason to live. Her name alone could shoo away the pain tearing away at him, if only for an instant. He wondered if she would come to him if he waited a while longer. But that was the past. A memory. He was not in a castle. Nowhere near one, in fact. So where was he?

Fastening the vambrace’s ties around his head, he picked up the sword— _Longclaw, isn’t it?_ —and sheathed it. His chest fought for air. He was someplace high up in a range of tightly-clustered mountains keeping the full strength of a sea of hellfire to the north at bay. A red glow permeated through the grimy black clouds that swathed the sky, opening up into a crimson orb to the east. Jon thought it looked like the setting sun. Through the foreboding snaps and growls issuing from the flickering orange horizon, Jon made out the erratic and pained moans of a wounded beast. Still not quite steady on his feet, he followed the desperate huffs higher up the mountain, round a bend and stopped in his tracks.

A small silver-haired woman sat kneeling before a gargantuan beast with black scales, a reptilian neck, and bat-like wings. Slack wings twitching with effort and claws desperately digging into the mountain face, the beast breathed labored puffs of hot smoke onto the woman. Though stumped into an awed silence, the memories drifted back to Jon. The beast was Drogon and he had two brothers. Viserion, who had been killed, and Rhaegal whose throat he himself had slit. The woman who was caressing Drogon’s snout, begging the him to hang on, she was…

“Daenerys,” Jon said out loud, limping towards her. He had uttered that name with precaution and disdain many times before. But he did not remember why.

“Jon, I don’t know what’s the matter with him!” Her eyes were bloodshot and her voice cracked from soot and grief. “He wasn’t hit. I’m sure of it. We caught you and got away before the fires could take us. But his wings weakened and he couldn’t keep going, and now he can’t breathe!”

Jon heard the plea in her voice. To summon a miracle.

But he was no god. He was just Jon.

He watched helplessly as the muscles in Drogon’s neck gave out and he lay his massive head on Daenerys lap, his breaths rattling, growing shallower. Daenerys curled her torso about him and rested her cheek between his eyes. Tears streamed from her closed eyes as she cooed, “It’s all right. It’s all right. Mother won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.”

Jon tried to piece his memories together. The change in course over the Haunted Forest. The cave in the fire mountain. The flaming stakes. The Night King charging at them atop Viserion. The voice in his head telling him to let go.

_Let go. Come with me. Your watch is ended._

Perhaps Drogon’s watch was also at an end. As though answering to his silent musing, Drogon’s body seized. He uttered a soft whine, like that of a newborn foal, before breathing out a long-drawn gurgle. He went perfectly still.

Daenerys remained where she was, her bottom half buried under Drogon’s head, and her top wrapped about it. Her red-violet eyes opened to look at Jon. At his solemn nod, her brows pinched together and lips trembled as a fresh bout of sobs took a hold of her.

Jon was nearly moved to tears himself, for there was nothing quite so saddening as a mother grieving her child. He wondered why a woman so shattered and vulnerable put his teeth on edge. A woman who had sacrificed all she had, and saved his life along with the world at large, deserved his ire.

And then he remembered riding with her to Horn Hill. Three dragons circling the holdfast, engulfing it in flames. He remembered chasing after her at Skane, mounting Rhaegal in pursuit of her across the Shivering Sea, and then looking on, helpless, as the Night King’s javelot struck Viserion and the white dragon disappeared under a swath of undulating clouds. He remembered riding to the outpost, Greenguard. The eunuch, Varys telling him the tale of the lost heir to the Iron Throne.

His given name was Aemon Targaryen. And she was Daenerys Targaryen…his aunt.

Jon’s heart lurched at the name, Greenguard. Not because he was the rightful king of the seven kingdoms. He had already known that, though for how long he could not be sure. No, there was something else. Something he wished with his every breath was a lie.

Sansa… _His_ Sansa and their son were dead.

On Daenerys’ orders.

Jon edged closer to Daenerys, fists clenching as he decided whether to chop her head clean of her body, or draw out her suffering. He was not the sort of man to resort to either, but he had never had to avenge a wife and child before. His sword hand reached for the white wolf hilt. _A northern trial and execution would be wasted on her,_ he justified to himself. _A trial will only lead to a mutiny at the hands of the Dothraki and Unsullied._

He stayed his hand. He would not dignify her deceitful maneuvers with a northern trial. But she was aggrieved, and would likely welcome death if he were to offer it right then. No, whatever he was going to do, now was not the time to do it.

“Daenerys,” he said, the dryness in his voice softening the malice he felt. “It’s getting cold. We’ve got to find shelter.”

Daenerys wound her arms tighter around Drogon’s snout. “He had no reason to go.”

“I know. But you’ll catch your death if you stay out here.”

“Just a while longer.” She closed her eyes and relaxed against the scales. “He’s still warm.”

Seeing there was no arguing with her, Jon dragged his feet along the dragon’s massive body, and climbed up his arm to the kink between his neck and torso to unfasten the saddlebag and remaining weapons. The simple task had him seeing stars in his covered eye, and had him retching again when he set foot on the ground again. Shouldering the saddlebag, he climbed and skidded down the slope, and left a trail of rocks in his wake so Daenerys could find him. Strength drained from him quickly. There was no way he would make it all the way down before dark. There were no caves along his path. The best he could find was a south-facing spot enclosed by boulders large enough to shield them from cold lashes.

Dropping onto his arse, he opened the saddlebag and took stock of their supplies. There was enough food to last each of them a week. If they lowered their rations, they could stretch it out for a two. It still would not have been enough for the journey home. Also in the saddlebag were a leather-skin pouch of water, a bedroll, some salve, a flint, and scraps of wool as kindling for fire. With no wood to fuel a fire, the flint and wool were useless. The salve, Jon hoped, would have greater use.

Removing his second vambrace, Jon cut it up so it just about covered the space between his brow bone and upper cheek. Then he untied the vambrace he had on with a guttural yowl, washed his left eye with melted snow again, and applied the salve around it. Gently padding the area with wool, he placed the adjusted vambrace over it and fastened the ties round his head. The searing pain quelled to a dull ache. He let out a long, tired sigh.

He wrapped his cloak about his shoulders tightly, and curled up against a reclining rock, watching swirls of soot blow past the blood red sky. Though it all seemed ominous—he was certain he was going to die from the cold or starvation—his heart beat with vitality and purpose. With the freedom to listen to his natural impulses for once. _I won’t let death claim me till I’ve passed my sentence,_ he resolved before drifting off to sleep.

The crunch of Daenerys’ approaching footsteps roused him. The sky was dark but for a faint orange glow permeating from far up north.

“Jon?” She sniffled.

“Over here,” he cleared his voice. “Follow my voice.”

The pale silhouette of her hair wove through the rocks to him. She looked about the spot, hugging herself. “Jon, it’s so cold.”

“I know. I’m afraid we don’t have much besides the bedroll.”

“We can’t—it’s too cold. We have to light a fire.”

“A fire, aye. You wouldn’t have happened to seen any bloody trees ’round here, did you?”

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that!”

Jon inhaled sharply and regained control. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

Daenerys slumped onto the ground across from him. Her shoulders shuddered as she wept.

“I’m sorry about Drogon…and for what I did to Rhaegal. The Night King would’ve turned him if I didn’t.”

“They were my children. They were all I had.”

_And now neither of us have anything to lose._

His nose wrinkled in disdain, Jon took out a portion of cured game from the saddlebag and held it out to her.

“Eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“We’ve got a long journey ahead. You’ll need all your strength.”

She scoffed. “You really think we’ll be able to return without my dragons?”

“Aye, I do.” He patted the saddlebag. “There’s three weeks’ worth of food in here that we can stretch out for six. Not to mention I left orders for Ser Davos and Ser Jorah to head a search party as far north as possible if we didn’t return in five days. If we make haste, we’ll likely meet them half way.”

Jon heard Daenerys’ soft release of tensed breath. “They’re out there looking for us?”

“If it were just Ser Davos, I would’ve doubted it,” Jon answered, wryly. “But there’s no doubting Jorah Mormont’s devotion to you. He’s likely halfway past the Haunted Forest by now.”

Daenerys hummed. Wiping her nose in her cloak, she took the cured meat and bit into it. Jon ate half a portion. He wondered if there was any living game left beyond the Wall. If the Night King had claimed every living thing, he would not have anything to eat once the saddlebag’s supplies ran out.

They listened to rumblings in the distance for a time as one did the rain from a castle tower. After, Daenerys rolled out the bedroll and ensconced herself in it. Curled into a ball, she could not stop her teeth from chattering.

Wishing he had had the foresight to bring a leather flask of Arbor Gold, Jon crawled over to her and molded himself against her backside. The contact calmed rattle in his bones. Pulling her flush against him, he wondered how easy it would have been to slit her neck there and then. She wouldn’t even know what happened. But a corpse was no good to him on this cold night. And when the time came, he would make sure she knew who he was. What she did.

“Jon?”

“Mm?”

“I feel them inside me, my dragons. I feel the life they sacrificed coursing through me as though they’ve granted me new life.”

Jon grunted to let her know she had his attention.

“It was the same when I lost Drogo. When I walked into the pyre with him. I should want to die with them, but I have survived the fires of that pyre as well as many others. I’ve even survived the sands of the red waste. Do you believe as I do, Jon? Do you believe there’s a reason we were spared?”

He didn’t respond.

“I never got to ask you, but…Jon, when we take King’s Landing, I want you to bring Lady Snow there and stay with me.”

If this was a jest, it was perhaps the most ludicrous jest known to man. She felt so small in his arms. So delicate. His hand could so easily slide up to her neck, and snap it.

“I’m barren, Jon. I can’t think to rule the seven kingdoms without heirs. If I name you my successor, your children will inherit the throne. Besides, Alayne is of the south is she not? I’m sure she’d be more than grateful to live out the rest of her days someplace warm.”

“And what am I to be to you in the eyes of the world?” Jon said in a deep, barely contained growl. “A brother, a son, a consort?”

He felt her heart quicken.

“Targaryens have always been accepting of a man taking many wives. I want you to be happy. I won’t think to tear you away from her, but I can’t bear the thought of being apart from you.” She sniffed softly. “The truth is, seeing how you look when you speak of her, I feel I’ve grown quite fond of her myself. In time, I may even love her as you do.”

 _Sansa would’ve spat in your face for proposing something so preposterous._ Jon sighed. _But she wouldn’t have._ Sansa would have pretended to consider it and then tactfully talked her way out of it.

“What’s she like, Alayne?” Daenerys asked with a young girl’s wonder. “How did a bastard girl from the Riverlands seduce a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch?”

He had no wish to indulge her with answers. Sansa was _his_ wife. _His_ to know. Speaking of her to Daenerys, sharing the innumerable things that made Sansa so wonderful, felt like betraying her memory. Still, with a shaky breath, Jon sought his earliest memory of Sansa.

“I’d been raised from the dead,” he finally said. “Cold, defeated, alone. I’d given everything to the Night’s Watch only to have my brothers kill me for it. I hanged the men who stabbed me, aye, but it did nothing to mend the ache in my heart. I refused to fight any longer and I didn’t much like the Red Lady for bringing me back.

“I wanted to live out my days across the Narrow Sea. Someplace warm where it didn’t matter who sat on the Iron Throne or when the Night King came. And just as I was leaving the horns at Castle Black sounded, and a lad came rushing in to tell me a girl wearing a grey cloak had arrived on a dying horse.”

Something felt wrong. He had been relieved seeing Sansa’s fiery red hair that day because he recognized it. Sansa was his cousin, and to the world she was his sister. Why then, could he not remember their days as children, living together in Winterfell? Why could he not remember how they came to be lovers?

“Alayne?” Daenerys asked when he had been silent some time.

“Aye. With Lady Brienne.”

“Why would Brienne of Tarth be with her?”

Realizing his slip, Jon’s senses sharpened. “Alayne got lucky. I don’t think she’d have survived on her own if she’d not happened on Lady Brienne. She was fleeing a disagreeable match her father made for her, see, but she hadn’t the time to bring food or even decide on a place to go.”

“So she accompanied Lady Brienne all the way to the Wall?”

“Aye.”

“And, then…” Jon detected a crack in her voice. A sharp intake of breath and stiffening of the shoulders. Jealousy. “The long journey must have taken a toll on her.”

“Aye, but she was the loveliest thing anybody so far north’d ever seen. Hair like fire, skin pale as snow, and eyes like sapphires.”

Irked, Daenerys began fidgeting and wriggling so as to push Jon away. He did not budge.

“I was relentless in my pursuit.” His breath was hot against her ear. “She kept telling me it wasn’t right. That the northmen wouldn’t take kindly to a my taking a girl of her lineage to my bed. But the morning I was to ride out to battle, she called me by my name instead of Lord Snow, and right then I knew I’d never want another. I’d never been so happy that I’d been killed and freed from my—”

“I’m tired,” Daenerys cut him off. “I’m tired, and I wish to sleep.”

“Aye.” He sneered against her hair which did not smell of lavender. “Aye, you should sleep.”

Making one last attempt to shuffle away from Jon’s heat, Daenerys hugged her knees tighter to her chest. Eventually, her breaths evened and her small frame relaxed. Jon lay awake, listening to her thin, rickety breaths, thinking.

***

When Jon woke in the early hours, he saw nothing but a pallid blur. His improvised eyepatch had slipped off as he slept. The left eye still hurt when touched but had not discharged any fresh blood or mucus. He washed the area again, applied some salve around the socket, and padded and covered the area. His right eye’s vision returned, he ate a half portion of dry cake and hiked up the mountain to get a better look of the situation north. The climb brought him to where Drogon’s carcass lay.

Even in death, Drogon was a magnificent sight to behold. Sansa had told Jon how dragon skeletons of yore were stored away in the dungeons of King’s Landing as prized possessions. Jon thought Drogon’s fate more dignified. At least his bones would become one with the earth as the gods intended. He deserved as much. The realm would have been overrun with the undead if not for him.

The world was quiet. Not even the relentless northern wind whispered its usual chant. Though a thick black fog still blanketed the grounds below in the plains beyond the mountains and in the mountain valleys, the sky had taken on a soft pink hue. Jon’s chest burned from breathing in clear, unencumbered air for what seemed the first time in his life. The long night had drawn to an end. And now was the time for dawn.

He cracked a smile. A lone tear slipped down his cheek. How he wished in that moment he had been a poet. For he did not have the words, or the vision for that matter, to describe the beauty of that moment: of the incomparable sight before him, the tumult of happiness and sorrow twisting his insides, or the sweet death he would have happily taken had he not made a vow to continue living.

_Sansa would have wept had she seen such magic._

Sitting on a rock, he watched as brightening sunlight colored mountaintops pink, and beams of gold pierced holes into the thinning tufts of black down below. He felt the shackles of his titles—bastard, lord commander, king, husband, father, brother, protector of the living—fall away, and allowed himself to feel every slight he had ignored since setting out for Dragonstone. Out here he was who he chose to be. Out here he was just Jon.

His mind was made by the time he saw Daenerys’ crown of pale braids bobbing up the mountain side. Her chest heaved with emotion when she laid eyes on Drogon’s motionless form. Fighting away more tears, she clenched her fists and focused all her attention on Jon.

“You didn’t wake me.”

“No,” Jon said, still sitting, his elbows resting on his thighs. “I meant to return shortly, but I couldn’t look away.” He nudged his chin at the view before them.

“It _is_ beautiful,” she reflected, turning her back to him for a better look. “The lands to the south are even more so. Even with all the death and destruction we left behind, it all seems so clean and untainted…safe at last.”

“Aye.” Rising to his feet, Jon padded closer to her. “It feels the ash has cleaned the world of all its stink and grime.” After a pause, “I feel I may be true to who I am. That I may speak freely with you.”

Daenerys looked over her shoulder and smiled. There was no doubt in Jon’s mind that such a smile had bewitched a great many men.

“I never took you for a man who did otherwise, Jon Snow.”

“Then I suppose you won’t object if I finished my tale?”

Smile gone, Daenerys’ violet eyes darkened. Returning her gaze ahead, she snapped, “I’ve heard my fair share of such tales as a girl in Pentos. Besides, I don’t really care for stories I already know the ending to.”

Her spine grew rigid at Jon’s answering chuckle.

“I don’t think I’d be alive right now if you knew the end.”

“What’s gotten into you?” She spun around, generations of Targaryen fire burning in her eyes. “You’ve gone mad!”

Grasping her arm, Jon hissed, “Then why don’t you indulge the ramblings of a fool, hmm? The realm owes you its gratitude. Surely it can spare Daenerys Targaryen this moment.”

“Let— _go_ of me!” She yanked her arm free and retreated. “Stop this!”

“Why?” Jon closed the distance between them. She retreated further. “Am I frightening you?”

She pressed her lips together into a straight line. Her shoulders squared and her chest swelled. “I don’t fear the likes of you.”

“You’ll listen, then? Good. Now, where was I?” His eyes never left Daenerys. He mirrored her every movement, anticipated every ploy for escape. “Aye, the battle for Winterfell. When she called me Jon, and I knew I was hers forever. It was the beginning of the thaw. She gave in eventually, heart and soul, but custom bid we keep our relations a secret. The castle was teeming with spies, you see. Petyr Baelish being the greatest spy of all.”

Recognition flickered across Daenerys’ face. She was quick to mask it.

“When we received the summons of a foreign invader, and an offer of marriage seemed likely, we decided to be wed. But even that was done in secret, with only four others present. I can’t remember much of where I came from, but I know those few days after to be the best I’ve ever known…will know.

“What happened next to me, you already know. But you don’t know what happened to her. I got her with child before leaving, saw her belly grow in my dreams. Until I began dreaming as Rhaegal.” He choked on his anger. “I keep thinking I might’ve saved her if I’d seen she was in peril.”

“Jon.” Daenerys breathed heavily, her voice consoling. A line of concern marred her smooth forehead. “You mustn’t lose heart. We don’t know if the Others took Winterfell. For all you know Alayne a-and the child are safe, awaiting your return.”

“But I do know.”

Eyes wetting with tears, Daenerys gasped in sorrow. “The birth…was it…did she…Gods, Jon, when?” She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Should I tell you how it happened?”

“Jon, please…”

“She gave me a son, Sansa did. A boy who might have become king of the seven kingdoms if I allowed it.”

She jerked her head back. Deciding she had misheard, she smiled and cupped his cheek. “I would have been proud to name him my heir.”

Jon squeezed her hand. Lightly at first. Then tighter. “But it was you. You’re the one who killed him.”

This time when Daenerys tried to pull away, Jon did not relinquish his hold.

“Petyr Baelish told you of a wildling and a babe who were a threat to your throne.” He shook her by the wrist. “And like a fool you believed him. Like the filthy foreign bitch you are, you killed Sansa and my son!”

Daenerys yanked harder, dragging Jon back with her. “Jon, no,” she pleaded evenly, as though cooing to Drogon. “I would never…it was the Unsullied…some of them turned.”

Twisting her arm, Jon pulled her close enough for their noses to almost touch. The unspoken threat in his eyes made her freeze. “Do you know why Petyr Baelish told you Sansa had birthed the son of a Targaryen raised a wildling? He was the one who turned the wheel you so longed to break. But Tyrion didn’t tell you he was unmatched in the game of thrones. Littlefinger knew if you harmed Sansa, the true heir to the throne, _your_ brother’s trueborn son, would have your head for it.”

Furious tears spilled down Daenerys’ red cheeks as she tugged harder. Her knees buckled. She slumped to the ground. Jon’s features crumpled at having to hold her upright. Through it all, she met his gaze, refusing to be the first to look away. Refusing to be a coward.

“Drogon wasn’t the last family you had,” Jon said softly. Menacingly. A part of him relished seeing her like this. The other demanded he show her mercy. “There was a reason Rhaegal let me mount him. I am the boy who was smuggled north. I am Aemon Targaryen, son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. And I am the rightful heir to the iron throne.”

He flung her away. Her boots skidded over the ice, almost slipping off the cliff’s edge. Scrambling a few paces to safety, Daenerys’ eyes darted from Jon to the cavernous gorge intent on swallowing her below. Her breaths came out in a muddle of pants and whimpers.

“Daenery Stormborn. Mother of Dragons, Unburnt Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men. Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and Breaker of Chains.” Jon unsheathed Longclaw and gripped the hilt with both hands. “I charge you for the murder of Sansa Stark and my son who would have been named Snow, and hereby sentence you to death.”

“N-NO!” Daenerys straightened to her full height. “I am Aegon Targaryen’s one and only heir. It was I who saved the realm from the undead. The people of Westoros chose to rally behind _me_. You—you’re the one who’s nothing but a usurper’s dog! A northman’s lying bastard! My men will never let you live if you return to Eastwatch without me or my dragons. If you kill me now, Jon Snow, you’re as good as dead.”

“Your men are gone, Daenerys. The last of the living have likely set sail for white harbor already. There’s nobody waiting for you. Not even Ser Jorah.”

A crestfallen look swept across her features, making her look years younger. Her voice trembled. “I don’t believe you.”

Unable to hide her terror, she turned her away from him. A thin hiccup escaped her. She hugged herself and craned her neck over the cliff in search of an escape…a miracle.

 _What are you waiting for?_ Jon’s senses screamed. _Take aim and strike true._

No. Not with her back turned to him. Murderer or not, she had helped protect the realm of the living. And that alone earned her an honorable execution.

“Daenerys,” Jon implored gently. “Your Grace, could you have forgiven the man who killed the Khal?”

She did not reply. But the answer was clear from the stillness that came over her. Exhaling a long stuttering breath, she clenched her fists to her sides, pivoted on her heels, and fixed a piercing glare on Jon. Not a frightened girl. A Khaleesi. The Mother of Dragons. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Think yourself a free man all you want, Jon Snow.” Her cold eyes had as much bite as her words. “The realm may never hear of what transpired here, but your gods see all. You’ll be a kinslayer in their eyes, and you’ll spend eternity burning in the fires of the seven hells. I will find you, Jon Snow. And I will never give you peace.”

“If you find solace in doing so,” Jon said solemnly, “then so be it.”

He pulled Longclaw over his lesser shoulder and swung through Daenerys’ neck in one quick, seamless blow. A quiet wet swish, like ripping cloth, accompanied the motion. Blood oozed from the point of separation and the Targaryen princess’ head slid down the blade’s sloped path. Her body folded and toppled off the cliff. The head of silver braids, forever frozen in an ethereal steeliness, landed in the frosted snow with a dull crunch. The fire of its contemptuous gaze, now stained with blood, burned itself into Jon’s memory.

Feeling as though he had been dealt a blow himself, Jon stumbled past Drogon’s carcass to the mountain’s south face. Taking a life was never easy. Vengeance never returned that which was already lost. And now, Jon was alone.

Staring at the vast stretch of mountainous white that lay between him and home, he wondered if he had done Daenerys a kindness in giving her a quick death. He could not see the Haunted Forest from where he knelt, let alone the Wall. It would be weeks, perhaps months, before he encountered another living soul. _If I don’t starve by then._

Still, he would try. Sansa would have wanted him to. He owed her so much more.

He returned to the scene of the execution. Closing Daenerys’ eyes, he propped her head upright before burying it in snow. He offered a prayer to the Old Gods in her name even though he knew no one was listening, and ended it by asking her forgiveness.

Then, trudging over to Drogon, he ducked under the beast’s wing and, with great effort, moved his front leg to expose the vulnerable patch devoid of scales. The wings and arm had kept the mountain’s chill from hardening the flesh.

_I won’t survive the moon’s turn if I don’t._

Before he could change his mind, Jon buried his blade into Drogon and cut him open.

***

**One Year Later**

The Long Night drew to a close, but winter prevailed. After the dead had been cleared from the grounds and their last rites given, there was talk of the waiting out the rest of winter at Torrhen’s Square. The proposition, though alluring, was overruled by Sansa. The weather was still severe, and with the majority of survivors being women and children, she would not risk more loss of life. Winterfell’s numbers had depleted. With some organizing, Sansa was able shelter all survivors in the guest house, and new communal quarters and barracks that had been completed mere days before she had been kidnapped.

The decision to keep everyone in Winterfell proved to be a good one. Rebuilding efforts began immediately, but were continually stalled by bad weather. The Maester’s Turret was torn down before it collapsed. Its stones were used to replace the ones that could not be salvaged at the Great Keep. The northeastern wall could only be restored to a certain height. Building any higher under wintry conditions would have risked the loss of further life. It left the castle vulnerable, but it did not frighten any of the castle’s inhabitants. They had weathered the worst. And nobody would be fool enough to attack a pack of hungry wolves in the dead of winter.

Perhaps the greatest prize of insisting everyone stayed with her at Winterfell was wee Robb. Sansa’s beautiful violet-eyed prince. Val had spoken the truth when she said the boy would grow fond of her in time. Nights being as long as they were in the winter, Sansa spent hours playing with Robb beside the fire in the guest house. Soon, he would break away from his games with wee Sam and the other children to snuggle into her skirts as would a cat. In the mornings he would waddle around and about her bedchambers in search of her, and flail his arms in excitement when the nursemaid finally brought him to her.

Through it all, Sansa wished Jon would come home. It seemed wrong without him—watching their son learn new things, rejoicing, living. She woke every morning hoping it to be the day he came back to her. Every evening at dusk, she watched the northern horizon from the battlements. _Come back to me, Jon. Come back._ But he did not come.

Ravens resumed coming to Winterfell when the frequency of storms fell. The first Sam received was about Jon, from the Archmaester at the Citadel. According to him, a number of maesters at Old Town had accepted bribes from one, Lord Varys, to unearth the truth about Jon’s parentage. The Archmaester had tried to contain the revelation to the Citadel for fear of more upheaval and bloodshed, but he had been unsuccessful.

Sansa supposed the truth would have come out sooner or later.

“Do you suppose the realm will call on Jon to take the throne?” Sam asked Sansa, his throat dry.

“I don’t doubt it,” Sansa replied, reading the scroll over a bouncing Robb on her lap. “But we can’t survive two full-grown dragons. If this reaches Daenerys’ ears, or Tyrion’s for that matter, there’ll be a great deal of groveling to do.”

“You think she’ll fall for it?”

“I don’t know if I want to think what could happen if she doesn’t.”

Things turned bleaker a week or so later when they received another raven from Willas Tyrell at Highgarden. The forty-five thousand gold dragons Daenerys had ordered be sent to Sunspear to pay Littlefinger had been stolen by Lannister men. Willas’ spies had tracked the gold all the way to Essos where it was being used to enlist the services of the Golden Company.

The north was under threat from two fronts. Sansa’s first impulse was to reconsider moving the people to Torrhen’s Square. With the castle’s northeastern wall compromised, it was simply too dangerous to remain in Winterfell. But she was trained to see every possibility, all at once. _A deserted castle gives Cersei’s men the perfect cover to lie in wait. If I desert the castle, Jon will meet with an ambush instead of a feast when he returns._ It was decided they would all stay in Winterfell and make the necessary preparations for another attack.

Before Sansa could entreat the Vale for reinforcements to defend the castle, Sam received a rave from Jaime Lannister. Daenerys’ fleet had returned to the Vale from Eastwatch for its surviving men. Though the Unsullied and Dothraki’s numbers were dwindling, they had made a failed attempt to raid Gull Town. Ser Jaime reported no major casualties. The foreigners had been loaded back onto their ships and sent back to Dragonstone from whereon, Ser Jaime said, they would be his brother’s headache.

There was no mention of Jon, Daenerys, or the surviving dragons.

Alongside a reply by raven, Sansa sent Lady Brienne to the Vale with instructions to lead a contingent of Lannister and Vale men to Highgarden with Ser Jaime. Cersei may have had mercenaries fighting for her, but her people still did not have food. Sansa knew she would have to lay siege to Highgarden, the Riverlands, and the Vale before she would even think to march upon Winterfell.

Then two moons after receiving the raven from the Vale, Ser Davos and Tormund returned.

Without Jon.

Arya, always so strong and stoic, was inconsolable on hearing Jon had disappeared beyond the Wall. She made several attempts, each thwarted, to go north in search of him. Eventually, grief gave way to anger, and she lashed out at anyone who crossed her. Only when one of her outbursts reduced poor Rickon to tears did she realize she wasn’t alone in her grief.

Rickon, all of two and ten years of age, stayed strong for his sisters. But that did not mean his heart ached any less for Jon. When he was not training, attending lessons or acting go-between for the smallfolk and Sansa, he withdrew to the solitude of his chambers. Sansa often found him curled by the fire next to Shaggydog, crying.

As for Sansa…she could not bring herself to believe Jon was gone.

“My lady, Jon would have moved mountains to come home,” Ser Davos had said. He had told her all about their encounter with Lord Varys. “But the fact remains that, between the two of them, they had a sennight’s worth of food each,” Ser Davos had said. “Aye they could’ve hunted game, but there was nothing left living as far up as Starrold’s Point. To survive so long without food is like the sun rising in the west.”

 _But I would have felt it in my bones_. Sanda had heard Ghost’s mournful howls after the mutiny at Castle Black. She had heard it all the way in the Vale. _Then there was the time I saw him with Daenerys._ Jon and she were bonded by more than blood and vows. If he was gone, surely she would have felt the emptiness he would have left in his wake.

 _Or perhaps I am a fool_.

She spent hours in the godswood, praying, wishing, hoping.

 “Jon?” The leaves of the heart tree would stir in reply. “If you can hear me, I love you. I’ll wait for you. Come back. Come back to me.”

 _He’s alive._ _He has to be alive. No god, old or new, could be so cruel to lace victory with such bitterness._ They had already taken Bran and countless others. They could not take Jon too.

But there were days Sansa watched her dark-haired boy—the picture of his father—exploring the grounds astride Ghost, and wondered if the gods had provided her ample recompense for taking Jon. In Robb. In Ghost. Both parts of Jon. Perhaps they _were_ cruel, or perhaps she was too simple to know their ways.

***

As the worst of winter’s chill abated, Winterfell’s workmen began venturing out to the Wolfswood to gather wood and season it to make repairs to the interior of the Great Keep. A modest but welcome supply of grain arrived from the Vale. Replenished with fresh supplies, the guests from further up north and the brothers of the Night’s Watch took their leave.

Ravens continued coming in from southern houses, inquiring after the whereabouts of Jon and the Dragon Queen, demanding Jon take up arms against Cersei’s reign of fear. Though Sansa had tried to keep matters quiet, news reached Lords Cerwyn and Glover, and not a moon’s turn after everyone left, Sansa found herself hosting the heads of the northern houses at Winterfell again.

Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island was the first to thread the links between Robb’s peculiar violet eyes and Jon’s Targaryen lineage. Confronted about it during assembly, Sansa had no choice but to come clean about her marriage to Jon. Furor in the newly restored Great Hall over their lady’s deception eventually gave way to excitement and entitlement.

“If the boy is Targaryen,” Lord Glover bellowed, “the Iron Throne belongs to him! The north has friends in the south. Loyal and powerful friends. I say we rally our men and march on King’s Landing!”

A loud wave of cheers boomed through the hall.

“My lord,” Sansa roared. “We will do no such thing! Winter still wages, and the north has hardly recovered from the Long Night.”

“But my lady, it is his birthright!”

“Robb is a child! If he wishes to claim his birthright, he may do so when he is of an age. So long as he is still under my protection, he will not leave Winterfell.”

The chorus of countering arguments was cut short by the blast of a horn. It came from the Eastern Gate leading to the King’s Road.

Sansa’s heart clinched. What if all this talk of marching on King’s Landing had summoned Cersei’s mercenaries to her doorstep? The northeastern wall was still in disrepair.

The portcullis to the gate was being raised as she, Arya, Rickon, Sam and Ser Davos rushed outside. Flanked by the small and freefolk trying to salvage Wintertown, in came two brothers in black. Their cart drew to a halt in the center of the courtyard. Elbowing people out of his way, Tormund climbed onto back of the cart and crouched over something…someone.

“Seven hells, he’s cold as ice! Maester, the plank! Get him to the sick room! Hang in there, lad, ye here? Hang in there.”

Sansa did not know how or when she crossed the courtyard. Her mind could not believe nor understand the gaunt face with leather strapped over the left eye; the pile of skin and bone swaddled in oversized furs lying in the cart. _Gods, what did they do to you?_ But she knew those furs. She knew the black hair, though matted and crawling with nits, that hung down to his chest, and she knew the one grey eye peering out through ice-crusted lashes. She knew. She had always known.

Before her shock could wear off, two men slid a firm plank under the the shivering figure, lowered him from the cart and carried him inside with Sam trotting after them.

Sansa wished to call after him, but all she could manage was a whimpering cry.

He had come back. Her Jon had come back to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaah!!! Well, the first half of this chapter was, shockingly, not fun to write because Jon went to some dark places and I felt miserable for Daenerys when she made her last stand. But he's home now, and that's all that matters. And now we move on to happier things lol. 
> 
> My lovelies, your comments are like melted ice and salve to a spliced eye, and I am forever grateful for them. Thanks for reading!


	33. A Song Unfinished and Unsung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After returning to Winterfell, Jon recovers physically and mentally with a push from Sansa.

Every window in the sickroom was bolted shut. A maid hastily fed wood to the fire. A wash tub was set up beside it and filled with boiling water from the kitchens. Soon, the well-lit room was clouded with steam.

The plank carrying Jon was set down on the maester’s table. Sam and Tormund made quick work of removing his sodden boots, furs, armor and underclothes. His nose and throat struggled for air, but the his chest remained rigid. His skin had taken on a glassy sheen, as though he had been sculpted from thin ice. The most negligent of pressures could have splintered him into a thousand parts.

Carefully gathering his stiff form in his arms, Tormund lowered Jon into the tub of hot water.

His anguished cry lanced through Sansa’s heart. Anger and misery roiled through her as she watched the scene unfold from the sick room’s threshold. _You’re hurting him! Stop it! Stop it this instant!_ But she was no stranger to winter’s deadly bite. She knew hot baths twice a day would gradually thaw him. She knew he risked losing toes, fingers, or even a limb if the bite’s sting ran too deep. She knew his chest could collapse or his heart could seize from too much exertion. Her Jon _had_ come back to her. But only just.

He half lay, half sat in the tub convulsing. When the worst of the tremors had passed and his cries had softened to hisses, Sam undid the ties of the leather strap—Jon’s vambrace, Sansa realized—and peeked underneath. With a solemn grimace, Sam glanced at Sansa and shook his head. Then, briefly exchanging a silent look with Ser Davos, he peeled the leather and the wool underneath off.

Another hoarse yet piercing howl ripped through Jon’s chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks and he whimpered, almost childlike, as light from the fire touched his injured eye. Sansa’s balance faltered. The flesh around the eye was mottled brown and purple. Angry veins sprouted from it, up the side of his nose, down to his ears and the top of his cheeks. The white of his eye was blood red. Embedded within it, instead of the beautiful grey Sansa had known all her life, was a pale blue iris.

A staying hand touched her shoulder when she made to go inside. Ser Davos.

“My Lady, it may be best if you left Maester Tarly and the healers to tend to him.”

“Ser Davos, I am his wife.”

“And that’s all verra well, but your presence is a distraction.” He looked about the antechamber pointedly. She was not alone. Arya, Rickon, the Northern Lords, Lady Mormont, as well as half the household had assembled for a glimpse of their king returned. “Now, the maester’s asked for the barber and that’s all I’m allowing in till he tells me otherwise.”

Sansa turned her gaze back to Jon, her mouth open in silent protest.

Arya interjected, “We’ll wait outside.”

“I want all of you—everyone here—gone, you hear?” Ser Davos said sternly. “I’ll not have you blocking the way. Go on, I’ll send word when he’s ready for visitors.”

Sensing her sister’s impending refute, Sansa acquiesced. “Ser Davos is right. We’ll clear the path. It’s a wonder they managed to get the hot water past us.”

She herded everyone out. The northern lords and Lady Mormont decided to adjourn their assembly and disperse. Sansa collected Robb from Val and squeezed his small, plush frame to her chest as she made her way to the Godswood with Arya and Rickon. _I may not be able to heal him, but Gods, I will pray for him._

“I’ve never seen someone bitten so severely by the chill,” Rickon said with an air of introspection. He had grown rather sagacious in his ways, her youngest brother. Not aloof like Bran at the height of his powers, but considerate and pragmatic about day-to-day matters. “Have either of you known anyone to survive it?”

They walked a long while in silence before Sansa answered: “Jon was brought to life by the powers of the Lord of Light. Dragon fire courses through his veins. If anyone should survive the bite of winter, it should be him.”

***

After Sam managed to rid Jon’s body of the hardness brought on by the chill, Jon fell prey to a high fever. The pale glassiness of his skin gave way to redness, and bulbous blisters formed all over his body. Despite being cocooned in the thickest wools and furs, with hot stones packed at his feet, he was plagued by the violent shivers. His breathing remained weak and shallow, and the few words he did utter were garbled with phlegm. In his fevered delirium, he ate or drank naught but a few spoonfuls of broth Sam forced down his throat, and seemed to have no idea where he was.

“To Win’erfell,” Sansa sometimes heard him croak in his sleep. “Get to…Win’erfell. For s’ring…hafto go back…”

The three Starks took turns sitting vigil at his side. Sam shooed them away when it was time for Jon’s baths or his damaged skin needed tending. Sansa spent most of her afternoons and late nights by his side. It was no use trying to attend to her duties. Not when her every thought was of Jon.

Some twelve days after Jon’s return, Sansa tucked Robb into bed for the night and sat dozing at Jon’s side. She had worn a thin summer gown to compensate for the chamber’s heat. Even so, a thin sheen of sweat had formed on her face and neck. A series of agitated grunts followed by a dim rustle of fur made her head snap up in attention.

Jon’s uncovered eye was trained on her. He had thrown off the bed furs. His fingers, still stiff, were awkwardly hooked into his drenched woolen tunic in an attempt to pry it off his skin.

“Jon,” Sansa said, her voice husky from sleep.

Lips pressing together and nostrils flaring, Jon shifted his gaze to the ceiling and resumed tugging at his tunic. Panting from the effort, he reached behind his neck to pull it off, but stilled. His fingers brushed the base of his neck, then slid higher, over his bare scalp. Sam had ordered all his hair be shorn before he was put in fresh clothes. Terror pulsed through his rickety frame. Suppressing a scream, his hands dropped to his side, and grabbed at the linens to hoist himself up.

“Jon, no.” Sansa hurried to his side and eased him onto his back. She winced with him as his blisters brushed against his tunic. “Sam’s said sudden movements might injure you further.”

The lines on Jon’s forehead deepened. His gray eye was awash in confusion. The eyepatch covering his left eye, on the other hand, seemed to shield her from a bottomless well of anger. One that she would have been wise to leave untouched. _It’s just an injury,_ Sansa reminded herself. _He’s still Jon. My Jon._ The thought made her smile. She wiped the sweat from his face and neck with a wet cloth and tried to envelope his hand in hers.

He snatched it away, crying out from the subsequent pain.

“Jon…” Sansa tried stroking the hand to ease the pain. “Jon, you have to be careful. Your muscles…Sam said it’ll be months before they return to normal. You have to try to restrict yo—”

“I won’t,” Jon rasped. “I won’t yield to your so-horcery. I ham…I ham a servant of the No-horth and youh-you’ll either let me return h-home or kill me.”

“Jon, my love, you _are_ home. At Winterfell. You came back. You came back to me.”

He recoiled from her touch and shook his head. “You’re no-hot so clever a-has you think. I knoh…I know the one whose form you take is dead.” A sob rattled his chest. “I know she’s lost to me.”

“No, Jon, no,” Sansa said through tears. Leaning over him, she cupped his cheek and stroked his temple with her thumb. “It’s me. Your Sansa. In the flesh.”

“But Duh-neh-ryz…”

“The Unsullied did come to Winterfell. But it was all a ruse for Littlefinger to get his hands on me. He had me taken to the Twins for his own designs, but I came back. A-and…” Sansa considered her next words. Would Jon still love her if he knew what she had done? “…and Littlefinger is dead, Jon. He’ll never bother us again.”

“Li’lfinger?” Jon mumbled, feebly. “But Varys…at Greengua-hard.”

“Ser Davos told me,” Sansa nodded. “But he was mistaken. I’m alive, Jon. See?” Daintily, she touched her cheek against his.

A thin whistle from his chest, like steam escaping a lidded pot, made Sansa pull away. His breaths deepened and steadied, rattling only a little. “I saw your belly…the babe.”

“Robb.” Sansa nodded. “I named him Robb.”

“He’s alive?”

“Yes, Jon. He’ll be seeing his second name day in a few days time. He looks just like you. Oh Jon, he’s the most beautiful thing. At times, my heart feels like it can just melt looking at him. I’ll bring him to see you first thing in the morning. That is, if Sam allows it. Arya and Rickon will be clamoring to see you as well.”

His eyebrows pinched together. “Rickon and…”

“Not just them, of course,” Sansa continued gaily. “Ser Davos has been very patient. Val’s only heard that Sam shaved your hair off. If you like, I can stall her a few days so you can think of a sharp enough retort to her teasing.”

A perplexed look darkened Jon’s bony face. His eye had glazed over, shut her out.

_I’ve forgotten someone._ “Jon,” Sansa said somberly. “We suffered a great many losses when the Night King attacked.”

This summoned him back. “The Night King? In Win’erfell? No, I—I killed him. He can’t have—”

Nodding, Sansa said softly, “He burnt down half the castle…and I don’t know what it was he did…but I think Bran saved us. And—and…Jon, we lost him.”

The faraway look returned to his features. “Bran…”

“He was at peace. I suppose there’s some comfort to be had in that.”

Grimacing in pain, Jon pressed his head into the pillow and shut his eyes. His mouth stayed parted, wheezing, as he channeled all his strength toward breathing evenly.

“You must be hungry.” Sansa patted his chest and shoulders dry of sweat. “I’ll go fetch something from the kitchens.”

“No…Sam.” He didn’t look at her as she spoke.

“Why, what’s wrong?” Sansa’s voice cracked with concern. Her eyes scrutinized the length of his body, from his fingers to his toes, to see if something had broken off. “Where does it hurt?”

“Noh, no…it’s…just get me Sam.”

Pecking him on the lips with a promise to return, she first went to the kitchens to arrange for some hot soup, and then fetched Sam from his and Gilly’s chambers. There was a hint of a smile on Jon’s lips when he saw Sam. He used words sparingly while responding to Sam’s queries and teasing. To Sansa’s dismay, whatever levity he had found in his friend’s presence vanished when he realized she was also in the room, watching them.

“Sansa.” Just uttering the name seemed to pain him. “I’d like to speak to Sam.”

Her lips parted to say something. To ask him what the matter was. To beg him to let her say.

“Alone,” he clarified, a silent plea in the set of his mouth.

Crestfallen, Sansa backed out of the chamber.

***

She was alive. His Sansa was alive. And he had just told her to leave.

_You’re a bloody arse, Snow._

“You gave us a right fright there, Jon,” Sam said with a lighthearted chuckle. “Mind you, not so great a fright as Ser Davos assuming you were dead, but still _quite_ the fright. But I reckon you’ll be fit as a fiddle once the fever’s ebbed.”

A knock sounded at the door Sansa had left closed behind her. Sam toddled over and collected the soup sent from the kitchens. Setting it down on the bedside table, he folded the sleeves of his tunic up to his elbow.

Placing an earhorn to Jon’s chest, Sam observed, “Your lungs will likely recover. Still struggling to pump air, mind you, but if we keep you warm enough and if you’re not fussy about taking your potions, the strain on them will ease.

“The skin will take longer, I’m afraid. It’ll get more tender, then dry and then we have to get rid of the old skin. I suspect you’ll lose sensation in a few places, and you won’t be fighting another battle any time soon, but you should be counting your blessings. Any other man would have lost all his limbs after spending a year without shelter in the northern winter. You’ve not even lost a finger.

“Now, what is it that made you send Lady Sansa away. Is it hurting too much? Your legs or your arms or neck? I can give you something for that.”

“No,” Jon wheezed. His stiff, gaunt frame felt like bursting under the force of his frenzied heart.

“Blisters, then,” Sam said. “There’s a salve I use to make them itch less.” His eyes widened. “They haven’t sprouted between your legs, have they? And here I was thanking the Gods you’d been smart enough to bundle up the family jewels. But then again, a man’s got to relieve himself at some point. No matter how cold it gets.”

“Sam…” Jon moaned, miserable.

Sam began pulling away Jon’s furs, bracing himself for his inspections.

“Sam, where am I?”

Pulling away, Sam stared at him, confused. “Pardon?”

“This place…what is it?”

“Well, you of all people should know, what with having lived here your whole bloody life. This is the sick room. In Winterfell.”

“Truly?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“And that…that was really Sansa?”

“Aye. What’s the matter, Jon? I’ve never seen a man look so miserable to find his wife and son alive and well.”

“Who was she…that name…Bran…she said he saved you.”

“Ah.” Sam smiled sadly. “Aye, Bran was the key. We’d all assumed he’d gone made, but he knew all along. He told me of the warhorn—to fix it so that…well that’s a story for another time. He died fighting for us, Jon. He died with honor.”

_Bran…Bran…Bran…_ Jon knew that name. He knew someone named, Bran—a brother…Sansa’s brother—had returned to Winterfell in his absence, but he could not put a face to the name.

“Rickon and Mistress Arya are well, though,” Sam continued. “They’re cut from the same cloth as you. Rickon’s a natural leader, and there’s nobody in the north so intimidating as Mistress Arya. Though, I do suspect she’s a bit of a romantic, sneaking around with the sourthron blacksmith as she does.”

_Arya._ Jon knew that name too. But it was the same as with Bran. “Arya’s my sister,” he said with a note of uncertainty.

“Well, you certainly loved her as a sister.” Brows furrowing, Sam asked, “What is it, Jon?”

“And you? You, Sam…you’re my brother.”

“Gods, Jon, what’s gotten into you? Of course, I’m your brother. We used to be sworn brothers of the Night’s Watch. We were at Castle Black together. I forsook the Seven to take my oath by the heart tree with you, remember?”

Lips quivering, Jon tried to suppress the sob forcing its way up his throat and failed. “I remember waking up in Castle Black, my chest covered in stab wounds. I remember Sansa riding in on a dying horse, and…and…taking Winterfell. I remember Rickon returning with Shaggydog, and being wed—”

He burst into a fit of coughs. Sam held a bowl to his mouth for his phlegm.

“Let’s get some food and water into you first, shall we,” Sam said with an air of disquiet. “And then you’re going to tell me what happened beyond the wall.”

Over the next few hours, Sam forced broth, meal and all sorts of potions down Jon’s mouth as the latter recounted Viserion’s death, his and Daenerys’ failed attack on Starrold’s Point, Rhaegal changing course to the fire mountain, the visions within and the crystal lances, the dance of three dragons, Drogon’s death…

…and Daenerys’ execution.

The telling of the tale was slow, interrupted often by violent fits of coughing and Jon drifting off to sleep mid-sentence. By the time he confessed to living off of Drogon’s meat for close to a year, the sky had turned a lighter shade of blue and the grounds outside were beginning to stir. Sam, for having spent the better part of the night attending to Jon, was wide awake and enthralled. Seeing how heavily the events of the Long Night weighed on his friend, however, he reacted with compassion and composure.

“So you’re saying the dragon—this Drogon—died without incurring the slightest injury? Not even a scratch?”

“Mmph.”

“This is all conjecture on my part, but it sounds to me that what little magic did exist in this realm was lost when the fire consumed the mountain. Think on it…It’s not just Drogon, but the Night King and the walkers…and Bran too. And…Jon, maybe that’s why you can’t remember anything before the Red Lady brought you back. Maybe it was the magic that allowed you possession of both your lives.”

“Or any life at all.”

“Now, Jon…”

“If I’ve lost all that I was, it’s only a matter of time before I lose who I am.”

“Jon, it’s been a year. Seeing as you’re still alive, I don’t think your heart will magically seize any time soon. Not unless you do something…well something stupid. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll know to drink and eat heartily and get better so you can be a father to your son and a dutiful husband to Lady Sansa.”

“Gods, Sansa.” Jon exhaled in despair. “How am I to be the man she fell in love with, when I don’t even remember falling in love with hers?”

“Jon, please, now you’re really raving like a madman.”

“It’s the truth, Sam.”

“You love her don’t you?”

Jon blinked a ‘yes.’

“Then that’s all there is to it.”

“I’m a kinslayer now, Sam. Would she even let me near the babe if she knew?”

Sam rose to his feet and gathered the dirty bowls and goblets. “I’ll not hear another word of this. Perhaps you’ll see sense once the fever subsides. Get some sleep, Jon.”

“Don’t let her bring the babe here,” Jon called after him.

“Jon.” Sam spun around, appalled. “He’s your son!”

“Aye. It’s one thing to grow up the son of a kinslayer.” He painstakingly raised his red-black hand to touch the eyepatch over his left eye. “The title doesn’t need a monster’s likeness to go with it.”

***

Sansa stared at the ashen sky from the window of the sitting room where the day’s small council meeting was in session. _How long before the birds arrive?_ Not the ravens, but the sandpipers, killdeer, herons and geese. How she missed watching them flitting across the sky, merry, without a care in the world. How she longed to show Robb how beautiful the world could be. He would grow to be a hardened northman like his father and grandfather before him, but Sansa still wished to instill a love for simple pleasures—for flowers and songs and love—in him.

She wondered if summer would carry the same sweetness as it did when she was girl. Oh, she knew there would be sweetness abound, but did she still have it in her to taste it? Or was she simply doomed to hold a fractured household together, wearing a smiling mask as her mother had once done?

Jon had been distant since waking from his fever. Not even Arya’s stories about her adventures in Braavos could return him to his old self. Sansa felt an intruder during her visits to his bedside. He seemed there only in body, barely uttering two or three words in answer to her queries. Sometimes it felt like he barely tolerated her.

Sam had discouraged her from taking Robb to see him, cautioning her of a number of ailments the child could contract from being in close quarters with Jon. As Jon’s strength returned to him, Sam continued insisting she keep Robb out of the sickroom. He evaded Sansa’s queries and extended Jon’s seclusion long past what was considered the norm. Sansa feared the worst—that something irreversible had occurred beyond the Wall. The same way Bran had returned to Winterfell only a shell of the brother she had known.

There was a time when she could dismantle the barriers Jon raised between them. She remembered the night after Bran fell from the Bell Tower, when she begged he open his door for her.

_I know I must be strong for them all and I-I’m trying…truly, but I don’t want to be strong now, Jon._

She did not want to be strong now either, but she would not dare make herself so vulnerable. Not when she knew what it was like to see her home being set ablaze. Not when she knew what it was like to have a brother die under her care. Not when she knew what it was like for her son not to recognize her.

She could not risk the truth; the possibility that what happened beyond the Wall stripped Jon of all his love for her. She would have rather died. _Perhaps I can just make believe and carry on._

“Your Grace?” a voice wriggled its way into her thoughts.

“Hmm?”

Ser Davos looked from her to Sam, Arya and Rickon. “Perhaps we’d best convene another time, my lady.”

“No, no,” Sansa tried to find her voice. “Forgive me, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. You were speaking of an alliance between Cersei and Euron Greyjoy.”

“Aye.” Ser Davos laced his fingers together. “Rumors, that is...of an alliance of marriage. But on the condition that Euron Greyjoy is able to supply Cersei with a fleet. I suspect it’s to take Dragonstone, but she can still have him sail north and attack us from the west.”

“And have you received news this fleet’s progress?”

“Aye, some. Howland Reed’s scouts have spotted the Ironborn downing trees to the southwest.”

“So they are still building the ships?”

“Seems so, my lady.”

“Then we’ll spare a few of our men to help the Crannog people cut off their supply.” To Sam she said, “Write to Ser Jaime and the Vale to see if they can do the same.”

“I’ll lead the patrol,” Arya offered.

“No, I need you here in case a stray ship does wander north.”

After a weighty silence, Ser Davos cleared his throat. “My lady, it’s all well and good that Cersei’s accumulating her forces at a snail’s pace, but winter will eventually come to an end. And when it does, as Queen and Robb’s mother, the realm will look to you. Have you given any thought to the northern lords’ proposal?”

“Ser Davos, it’s really not my decision to make.” She fixed a hard, reproachful look on Sam. “Seeing that Jon is alive, whether or not he chooses to claim his birthright is up to him. My duty as his wife is to respect his wishes, and my duty as Lady of Winterfell is to the north.”

Sam lowered his gaze. When she dismissed the small council, he all but bolted out of the sitting room.

Ser Davos stayed behind after everyone left, and flashed Sansa a fatherly smile so tender, it nearly reduced her to tears. “Still as chilly as the Others in a storm, is he?”

A solemn chuckle escaped Sansa as she slumped in her seat. “Robb was never in any danger of catching anything. Sam’s been lying at Jon’s behest. I just can’t see why he wouldn’t want to see his own son. What could have possibly happened out there?”

“I’ve given a lot of thought to that myself, my lady. And while I don’t know the whole of it, I do know that he left Eastwatch with two dragons and a Targaryen princess, and he returned alone.”

“You think he grieves her?”

“Perhaps. I also think he may have killed her…as punishment for what she did to you.”

Trying to wrap her mind around Ser Davos’ words, Sansa returned her gaze out the window. She had assumed Daenerys had perished in battle. Had faced an honorable end.

“And for all his boisterous rejection of the gods after dying, Jon still lives by their customs, passes justice by their laws. What do you suppose being a kinslayer would do to a man like that? That too one who’s come back disfigured as he is?

“My lady, when the Spider told Jon you were dead, he’d gone made with grief. He tried to kill me _and_ Giantsbane, and I had to keep him down with the milk of poppy for five days. Even after that, he remained in seclusion a sennight. Do you know what finally brought him back to his senses? What kept him from driving a dagger through his heart?”

Sansa shuddered at the idea. She shook her head.

“You. Your affection. What you stood for. What you meant to him. You were the dream of spring he clutched to his breast. And I suspect you are the only reason he didn’t freeze to death on his way back.”

“I doubt I could have stopped _that_.” A smile tugged at her lips.

“Men can be daft, my lady. They need a firm hand to set them straight from time to time. Jon’s been smarter and stronger than most, but I imagine being the Prince That Was Promised has taken its toll. He’s luckier than most, I’d say, for not only is his guiding hand his Queen, she is also his lady wife.”

The words ignited something Sansa thought she had lost at the tender age of six and ten: the courage to love without inhibition _._ She needed to be brave. Brave enough to face her deepest fears. Brave enough to trust in his love for her. Brave enough to lay claim to her love for him. If she could not be strong for him, then why not share in his vulnerability?

“Thank you, Ser Davos,” she said, smiling. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe it’s time to have a word with my lord husband.”

***

“Why he sleeping?”

“Because he’s tired from being sick.”

“Aw. When he get better?”

“I don’t know. Here, why don’t you pat his hand gently? Remember I taught you how to be gentle?”

“I pat Ghost gentle.”

“Yes, just like that. Pat father’s hand and say, ‘get well soon,’”

“I pat him gentle. Like this!”

Jon’s fingers twitched at the small hand stroking his knuckles. Groaning awake, he shifted his head sideways to behold a tiny mop of raven curls with a single tuft of silver resting on the edge of his bed.

“ _Get well soon,”_ the child—his child—sang as he went on stroking.

Throat dry and stomach fluttering, Jon called, “Sansa!”

The mop of curls lifted from the furs to unveil a round face with a somber set to its brows. Violet eyes—Targaryen eyes—rounded as the child let out an astonished gasp.

Jon snatched his hand from under the babe’s, recoiled, then instantly regretted it as spurts of pain shot up his arm. The whimpering child sought refuge in his mother’s skirts.

“I thought Sam told you to keep him out of here,” he growled.

“That hardly excuses your scaring the poor thing.” She set Robb on her lap and rocked him side to side. “Hush, my sweet. He is more afraid of you than you are of him. Can you be brave for mother? Hmm?”

Nodding, Robb snuggled deeper into her embrace.

The sight wrenched Jon’s heart from his chest. The beautiful, innocent boy in Sansa’s arms was his. And he had doomed the child, one who clearly brought Sansa unfathomable joy, with the mark of Targaryen blood. The hair could have been taken care of, but the eyes? How was one to hide Daenerys’ eyes from the world?

“He shouldn’t see me like this?”

“With the eyepatch and blackened skin, you mean?” Sansa asked. “Jon, your son has lived through war. He has seen far worse than a one-eyed man.”

Tearing his gaze away from mother and son, he blinked at the ceiling.

“It’s his eyes, isn’t it?” Sansa inquired. “They remind you of her.”

“Sansa, if you knew the things I’ve done…”

“You know I didn’t care if you had to take her to bed to secure her dragons.”

Jon looked at her incredulously. “Is that…Gods, woman, I’ve done no such thing!”

“Then?” She held Robb’s head to her chest and covered his ear. “Did you kill her?”

Jon bit back his distress, squared his jaw.

“Jon, she’d sent her men to kill Robb. As well as me. You were justified in what you did.”

“Aye,” he answered softly. “Aye, I killed her. I don’t regret it—passing the sentence, but…but even so,  there’s no deed so foul as killing your own kin. I fear…I fear my sins will come back to haunt me. That I am already being punished for it.”

The babe sat up in Sansa’s lap with a bored huff and rested his palm on her cheek. “Mama, I go play now.”

“All right, my sweet,” replied Sansa with a kiss to the crown of his head. “Say goodbye to father first.”

Crossing the short distance from her seat to the bed, she tilted Robb over Jon so he could place a shy peck under his father’s eyepatch. “G’bye, fah-durr.” The words were playful and cheery and they reduced Jon’s innards to a sloppy mess.

He watched Sansa carry the boy to the sickroom’s threshold and hand him over to a guard outside. “Fedyn, can you take him to Val? Do you promise to be a good boy, Robb? All right, then. Off you go.”

On returning, Sansa forsook her chair to sit by Jon on the bed.

“He’s a bonny babe.”

“Robb hasn’t been a babe in some time,” Sansa responded with a proud smile. “He was the tiniest thing when he was born.”

“Tinier than he is now?”

“So small he could lie on my forearm without a fuss.”

The loving smile that graced her lips was a familiar one. Jon’s muscles, even the ones which had lost all sensation, remembered what it felt like to feel that smile against his lips; what her laugh felt like against his chest. With a sharp intake of breath, he lamented, “And I missed it.”

“But you’re here now. Jon, you’ve defied all odds in returning to your family. Why in seven hells would you consider that a punishment?”

“Because…” Jon’s throat was parched. He hesitated to look at her for fear of being bewitched by those blue eyes of hers. “Sansa, I don’t know the man you fell in love with. Something happened when I killed the Night King. Sam says it’s to do with the death of magic or some such, but all I know is that everything I know, all my memories, they all begin at Castle Black when the Red Lady raised me from the dead. I don’t remember Bran or Arya, or Eddard and Catelyn Stark. I don’t know how a hardened soldier like me ever had the gall to make someone like you my wife. I don’t see how the song can carry on when I only know fragments of it.”

Eyes misting, Sansa sat rigid for a stretch. “Not even the library?”

Jon’s silence was answer enough.

Looking down at her entwined hands, she took several steadying breaths. “Tell me, then…If you no longer have roots in Winterfell, what brought you back? You thought your wife and son were dead, so why come back at all?”

A surrendering sigh streamed from his lips. “Because I was bound to you. To our dream. I had to go on living for you.”

“Then you are the same man I fell in love with, Jon.” She leaned over him and caressed his cheek.

“And if the few memories I do have are lost to me as well? If I am living on borrowed time?”

“Then I will have been grateful for the time granted us. Jon, you are more than your memories. You are my king, my husband. You’re _my_ Jon. Leave it to others to sing the song of Ice and Fire. We will sing something new…a song of springtime and flowers and bouncing babes.” With a playful grin, “A song of the unwavering King Jon and his lady, Sansa.”

Threading his gnarled fingers through her hair, basking in the familiarity and comfort of the motion, Jon drew her closer. “His _queen_ , Sansa”

He molded his lips against hers and imbibed her answering gasp and moans. It felt the most natural thing in the world. As though he had been doing it for years. _But I_ have _been doing it for years._ He felt himself falling. It did not matter if he remembered how it all came to be. This was Sansa. He would fall in love with her over and over again, till his very last breath.

***

With his spirits returned, Jon managed to make a partial recovery sooner than Sam had predicted. He woke early and walked the length of the sickroom several times with the aid of a cane before breaking his fast. Sansa and Robb broke their fasts with him. After, when Sansa took her leave to attend to her duties, Robb remained beside his father, playing with his toys. Sansa often found the two—Robb curled up against Jon’s torso—fast asleep when she returned to take Robb down to the Great Hall for his midday meal.

Arya and Rickon dropped by in between duties and lessons. Sansa had advised Jon not to tell Arya of his loss of memory. Not only would it have broken her heart, it would also have been reason enough for her to withdraw and revert to her Braavosi ways. Thankfully, both Arya and Jon had enough stories to share of their times away from Winterfell to ever broach the stories of their childhood together. There was also a certain bastard blacksmith from King’s Landing, who Jon took great pleasure in teasing her about.

Before the moon’s fourth turn since Jon’s return, Sam declared him healthy enough to be moved out of the sickroom, to the Lord’s Chamber. Sansa felt it odd that first night, bidding Sam goodnight after he’d administered Jon’s nighttime potions and dismissing her handmaids while Jon sat propped against the pillows in nothing but a linen tunic under the furs of the canopied bed. They had hidden the true nature of their relations, eluded everyone around them so long that finally being accepted as man and wife seemed too good to be true.

She felt Jon’s eyes on her as she pulled on her nightrail and washed for bed. His reverent smile sent her heart into a frenzy. There was no containing the bashful smile heating her face as she climbed into bed. _Seven Hells, you silly girl! You’ve had a child with him._ When she burrowed into his chest, all the painful hardness of winter melted away and a contented sigh reverberated through her entire being.

His nose buried in her hair, Jon stroked the length of her arm tenderly. A throaty chuckle racked his still-fragile chest.

“What is it?” Sansa extricated her nose from the warmth of his chest to look up at him.

“I thought Sam was mad for thinking I’d be wanting to take my husbandly rights with you right away.”

Hitching a leg over his hips, Sansa ground against his half stiff cock and stifled a giggle. “Were you expecting your desire for me to diminish during our time apart, my love?”

“Mmm, no,” Jon smiled. “But I’m still in pain, and Sam’s afraid my lungs will give out if I tire myself. He gave me a thorough talking to, Sam did. I hate to think what he’s going to do to Wee Sam when he discovers girls.”

Sansa shuffled deeper into his embrace and nuzzled into his chest with a hum. “A few more years and we’ll see for ourselves.”

“Aye, I suppose we will, won’t we?”

***

To be carefree…it was a most foreign sensation for Sansa. Oh, winter still reigned over the realm, and rumblings of a war brewing to the south persisted, but Sansa felt delightfully weightless. She attended to her subjects with a spring to her step, and often caught herself grinning from ear to ear whilst performing the most mundane tasks. Comical and unbecoming as it must have seemed (she once heard her handmaids giggling about how thorough a lover King Jon must have been to paint that smug look on their Lady’s face), Sansa allowed herself to be happy. She had lived through enough to know that happiness, however fleeting, was best treasured and enjoyed to the full.

Though she and Jon had yet to join their bodies as man and wife again, spending their nights together in the same bed drained them of the filth of war. With each passing morning, they woke feeling a little warmer, a littler happier, a little healthier, a little more hopeful.

Sansa was humming one morning as she finished writing the last of the day’s missives in Sam’s new study. As Sam cleared the table of parchment and prepared the castle ledgers for study, Sansa took a turn about the room to stretch her legs. Her gaze fell on a window-facing desk strewn with parchment. Careful not to disturb what seemed an orderly chaos, her eyes roved the excited, juvenile scrawl marking the pages. One set of parchment seemed to chronicle the weapons built in preparation for the siege of Winterfell. Reading the account of Arya threatening Sam into moving the wildfire to the castle, Sansa laughed

“Oh, Sam! You’ve started writing.”

“Oh those…” Plodding to her side, Sam nervously shuffled the parchments into disorganized piles. “They’re just notes, really. Truth be told, so much happened in so many places in such a short span of time that I don’t know how I can possibly write it all.”

“You’re selling yourself short, Maester.”

“Oh, I know, I know…maesters are this world’s memories. That without us men are little more than dogs and so on and so forth. But this history…It’s not just an enormous undertaking to present events as they occurred, this is going to be my legacy. Do you know how many histories I’ve read in the Citadel that put me to sleep? Someday some green lad’s going to try reading my writings and curse me to the seven hells for boring him to tears.”

“Samwell Tarly, you’ve concocted wildfire and raised the kings of old from the dead. Don’t tell me the prospect of writing a book frightens you.”

“Not frightened, no. It’s just…you don’t think on how hard it is, writing, when you devour whole books in one sitting, do you?”

“No, I never have. But I can understand it can’t all be written in a single sitting. Take your time, Sam. Just one word after the other. The Long Night did eventually end, did it not? One day, perhaps in a few moons, perhaps in several years, you _will_ finish writing the War of Ice and Fire. As Queen of the North, I demand you do.”

Grinning with humility, Sam beckoned her back to their work. By the time they finished the day’s bookkeeping it was shortly before noon. A light snow had begun falling. Sansa found Jon perched against his cane in the courtyard, watching  Robb build a castle of stone and snow.

“Make that tower over there a little taller,” Jon instructed in a soft, sing-song voice.

“Like this?” Robb asked, patting more snow onto the tower.

“Not so much, now. A little more gently…Robb…oh no…”

The tower crumbled. Before Robb’s trembling lips gave way to cries, Jon slumped down to his haunches and repaired the structure with one hand. The other hand quivered from the strain of keeping balance with his cane. “No, no, it’s all right. See there, lad, all fixed.”

Tip-toeing into his blind spot, Sansa scooped up a handful of snow and squeezed it into a ball. Then, taking aim, she launched it at Jon’s back. Though it was some time before he saw her with his good eye, her laughter gave her away.

He shot her a reproachful glare and dug his cane into the snow for leverage. Sansa was too amused by his irritation to preempt his retaliation as he found his footing—a snowball to the chest. Hastening to make another snowball, Sansa cried out as Jon cast his cane aside and lunged at he.

“Jon, no!” She dodged him. Only just. She kicked a spray of snow at his face before running away. Jon, for all his ailments, was not far behind. “Sam forbade you from tiring yourself!”

“And is provoking a sick man what they teach highborn ladies now?” Jon laughed. “I don’t remember Sam saying anything about pummeling my back.”

“Oh it was _pummeling_ now, was it?” With a fair distance between them, Sansa scooped another handful of snow. “Well, if you must know, Sam did tell me some serious pummeling to the head would do you some good, so…”

Jon’s eyes were dark with concentration. Their intensity shot bolts of heat up her legs to collect in an excruciatingly delicious pool in her smallclothes. Biting her bottom lip, Sansa feinted running past his right and steered to his left. She was not quick enough, though. He had her ensconced in his embrace in the blink of an eye.

They were both out of breath, happy and a smidge too comfortable. His arms tightened around her when she tried to twist free.

“Jon, we’re outside.”

“What of it?” He pulled away just enough so he could lock his gaze with hers. “We are man and wife. A Targaryen wed to a Stark.” Resting his forehead on hers. “We need not hide anymore. My love…Sansa, we’re free.”

Sansa’s skin broke into gooseflesh. For a moment, it felt like she had forgotten how to breathe. They had done it. They had found a way to live with dignity. Letting out a stuttering breath, she cupped her husband’s face and pulled him in for a kiss.

A kiss everyone present in Winterfell’s courtyard bore witness to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah my lovelies, how are we at the penultimate chapter of this fic? I was under the impression it would go on forever. And yet, here we are! There will be a final chapter. I'm not sure if I want to call it an epilogue but it will definitely close *this* story. You all have been my rock through this entire process, so thank you for reading and leaving me your lovely comments!


	34. The Dragon Wolf Sows His Seed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Sexy times. Best read after sundown if you're fasting this Ramadan.

A sharp jolt followed by a startled whimper pulled Sansa from her slumber. Jon’s hold around her tightened, his breath ragged and hot against her ear. Outside, in the early hours of morning, another snow storm waged, rattling the window panes and spattering them with snow. It was too early. Sansa wiggled back, deeper into Jon’s embrace in the hopes of getting a few more winks of sleep. A moment later, his warmth was gone.

“Jon?” The name came out in a slur.

She threw her arm onto his side of the bed. The rest of her rolled onto her back. Jon’s grey eye glimmered in deep thought. The pale wintry light made his injured eye seem translucent. Slipping her fingers under his nightshirt through its collar, Sansa nestled her head in the curve of his neck. His heart was racing.

“A nightmare?”

“No.” His fingers trailed up and down her arm. “A memory more like…at least I think it was.”

Nuzzling against his neck, Sansa kissed the tender skin under his ear and waited.

“I was in the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall…on all fours. There was blood on my lips, warm, like iron, but I’d felt sated.”

“Ghost.” Sansa’s heart skipped a beat. Jon had not been able to warg into Ghost since Dragonstone. Perhaps, having been back at Winterfell for some time now, Jon’s bonds with the north were being forged anew. In time, he may even regain his memories before dying.

“I broke into a run, faster and faster, until there was no ground left to run on. Just sky. And I kept going. Not running, but flying. Round and round Dragonstone’s ghastly castle, then up against the stormy waters of the Shivering Sea.”

The thrill of warging into the finch to inform Bran of her arrival still sent tremors down her spine. She had never felt so free. So powerful. For Jon to have warged into not one, but two formidable beasts in his lifetime…why, she could not imagine how impaired he must have felt without either.

“So long as Ghost lives, there remains a chance you will warg again.”

“No, I think Sam’s right about what happened that day in the Lands of Always Winter. Arya hasn’t been able to see through her direwolf’s eyes since then either.”

“Then, maybe it’s for the best. We’ve been burdened by so much for so long. Perhaps the gods are relieving us of our duty to them.”

Kissing her hair, Jon sighed. “I still have a duty to you. And to Robb and our family, to the north and the realm of the living. I’ve seen enough to know I’ll never be free from duty. Only now, it feels as though I’ve been stripped of my armor. Like one wrong move will be the end of me. And I can’t have that, Sansa. Not now, when I have everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat. He was right, of course. Without magic, one ill-fated blow would have been all it took to shatter their family. As much as she wished for spring to bring her another babe, the only thing its arrival assured her of was more bloodshed at the hands of Cersei’s men. Like Jon, she knew she herself would also never be free of duty. If only it did not have to come at the expense of her family. Her happiness. Her future.

His hands slid up to the nape of her neck and tilted her head so she could look at him. He kissed her nose and shut his injured eye to get a good look at her. There was a deep crease between her brows. Smiling, he kissed it smooth. “Would you like to know of another dream I have?”

Before Sansa could respond, he rolled on top of her and began sucking and nibbling at the tender skin under her ear. Sansa gasped in surprise. The practiced strokes of his tongue and grazes of his teeth drew out an wanton moan. Her legs parted of their own volition to accommodate his hips. Wrapping them around his thighs, her knees pushed the hem of his nightshirt up until they found the firm, rounded flesh of his arse.

Resting her heels on the back of his calves, kneading his muscles with her toes, Sansa asked, “What is it you dream of, my king?”

He kissed and sucked down to the valley of her breasts, dragged his mouth up the slope of her breast and traced her nipple through her nightrail with his tongue. Giving it one pert suck, then another, he rubbed the wet fabric against her sensitive flesh and locked eyes with her. “You. Lying under me like this.”

Sansa’s hips bucked against his stomach, desperate for the friction.

Fingers still drawing circles with the damp cloth, Jon moved to taunt the other nipple taut.

“ _Gods_ , Jon…” It had been so long. The wetness pooling between her legs, the warmth coiling at the pit of her stomach…Sansa felt one look from Jon would set her ablaze.

His hands traced the curves of her waist. Slowly. Torturously so. When he found the hem of her nightrail, he folded it up in infuriatingly precise pleats. After what seemed an eternity, he ran his fingers up the inside of her thighs. They were already wet with her juices. A low hiss ripped through his chest.

His lips pulled up into a smirk. His voice was thick with desire. “In my dreams, Sansa, I kiss this sweet, wet cunt of yours.”

He brushed his knuckles over the luscious bush of red curls at the juncture of her legs, then parted her folds and smeared the juices up along her slit to her sensitive nub. “Do you like that?”

“Mmm…” Sansa writhed against his touch, twisted this way and that to find the pressure her body craved. When it seemed he would not cease teasing her, she panted, “What’s the matter, Jon? Are you waiting for Maester Tarly to grant you permission?”

“I’d forgotten about that,” Jon replied, feigning concern. He rubbed her nub with his thumb, sending a shudder of pleasure down her legs. “But you need not worry yourself, lass. He warned me against fucking. Didn’t say anything about eating your pussy.”

He dropped onto his stomach, wrapped his arms around her thighs and clamped her to the bed by the belly. Then bowing down to her cunt, he buried his nose in her curls and suckled on her pearl of pleasure. Round and round his tongue swirled, sending more and more tendrils of heat piercing through her senses. His palms ghosted over the soft skin under her navel, stoking the fires burning deep underneath. His eyes were shut as his tongue laved her pussy, coaxed it meticulously, hungrily. He resembled a monk at prayer. Sansa was his alter. And he knew no god besides the sacred act they shared in that moment.

Disarmed yet not quite defeated, Sansa’s head fell back. The heat in her stomach tightened with every lap of Jon’s tongue. She was drenched in sweat. The nightrail she had on was too tight. “ _Aaanh._ ” The straps of the garment were clawed down her arms, the top yanked down to her midriff. She cupped her slick teats. “ _Ohonh,_ yes, Jon.” Kneaded them. “Yes.” Pinched them. “Yes.” Rolled them. “Yes, yes, yes!”

The heat seized her. She was falling. Trembling all over. Again and again and again. Her cunt clenched, spilled its juices onto Jon’s chin. And still…it felt empty. She wanted more.

With one last open-mouthed kiss to her nub, Jon sat up on his knees and stroked her thighs as the tremors ran their course. His chest heaved with strained breaths and his arousal tented his nightshirt. In one fluid motion, Sansa pulled herself up onto her knees and pressed her bare teats onto his chest. Her lips hovered over his as she trapped his cock between their bodies and ground it against her stomach. She wrapped her lips about his chin, cleaning it of her juices, and dragged them to his mouth.

Jon’s hands roamed her bare back, slipped under the bunched up night-rail and squeezed her arse; reached lower between the two cheeks and teased her back hole. It sucked the air from Sansa’s lungs. She drew away to catch her breath. As she did she saw nothing but affection in Jon’s mauled, yet handsome face. Fixing him with a resolute stare, she grabbed handfuls of his nightshirt. “I want you inside me.”

Helping her pull the garment over his head, Jon kissed her ravenously. “It’d be my pleasure.”

Devouring his lips, Sansa stuck one knee between his legs and used the other to tackle him onto his back. Jon chuckled in surprise. “You take advantage of a sick man with your strength, Sansa.”

“Mmm.” Sansa grinned, silencing his laughter by slipping her tongue into his mouth. “I’ll be careful to go slow, then.”

Her taut nipples grazed against his chest, at places rubbery, at places jagged from scarring, and at places baby soft. The plethora of sensations mixed with Jon’s urgent moans stoked the fire in her loins to unbearable heights. Angling her hips down, she dragged her wet cunt down from his navel to the base of his cock. It poked her back hole. Her entire frame clenched with desire. Then sitting up, she raised her hips and sheathed his cock inside her.

They both cried out in ecstasy.

Sansa rocked back and forth, made the head of Jon’s cock hit a spot against the wall of her pussy that sent pangs of intense pleasure up and down her body. Clawing onto Jon’s chest for balance, she pulled up his length, before slamming back down with a _slap_.

Mouth agape in want of air, Jon’s hands fell to his sides in surrender. “ _Oohn,_ gods, fuck. _Oonh._ ” His eyes—one blue, one grey—were fixed on her, watching her as she rode him. A moment later, his brows pinched together. “The light…fuck, it’s too bright.”

Sansa halted mid-stroke. Her pussy spasmed in protest.

Reaching sideways, Jon patted the bedside table for his eye-patch. Lips pursed in concentration, he put it on and fastened the ties behind his head. Sansa couldn’t help but laugh at the look of relief on his face as his head fell back onto the pillow.

Cupping her teats and squeezing them together for his viewing pleasure, Sansa asked, “Do you like what you see, my king?”

Jon clutched the sides of his pillow, adjusted himself so he was fully pliant under her. “Continue.”

A fresh wave of heat swept through her. This man underneath her, her lord husband, her king…she wanted him to ravish her day and night. She wanted him to think of nothing but her, love no woman but her. And as she rode him, as the _squelches_ and _slaps_ of their lovemaking filled the chamber, she knew deep in her soul that she was the only one for him. As he was the only one for her.

She threw the nightrail bunched at her hips over her head, and bore her cunt slipping up and down his cock to him. Wetting her fingers with her juices, she coated her nipples with it and arched her back so they shone in the pale light of dawn. “Look your fill, Jon. This— _nngh—_ this is all yours. These are the teats that fed your son.” Her slick fingers drew a trail down to silver-white rivulets limned across her stomach. “And these are the scars I bore to bring him into this world.”

Jon’s good eye welled with tears. He pulled her flush against him and held onto her for dear life as his hips thrust into her.

“ _A_ _anh…aanh…_ oh gods, Jon…”

“Fuck, Sansa,” Jon panted, “I love you— _nnnGrh—_ I love you so much.” He slid his hand down her back, between her arse’s crack and fingered her.

Her walls fluttered, then clamped around his cock. All went black as wave after wave of delicious, spastic pleasure lay siege to her body.

“ _Nnngh,_ fuck…”

The heat was chased by another, wetter heat. It spurted into her womb, filled her.

Underneath her, Jon’s body quaked as moans and incoherent cries ripped through him. His hands roved her body; clawed at her skin like a child searching for his way home in the dark.

They lay there, joined. Sansa’s chest burned as she tried to even her breath. Remembering Jon’s condition, she lifted herself on her forearms and scrutinized every crease, every stuttered breath. But there was no discomfort. Just a grin of pure bliss.

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice husky from being thoroughly sated. He pulled her down against him again. “Just stay here with me.”

Though the day was almost afoot, they dozed off. The sky was a brighter white, and the snowfall outside had waned somewhat when a knock accompanied by a child’s merry chirps sounded at the door. Idly reveling at the feel of Jon against her at first, Sansa’s spine grew rigid when the raps on the door became impatient.

“Where Mama?” A soft voice chimed behind the door.

“Where _is_ Mama,” the nursemaid corrected.  

Sansa sprang upright. “Gods, Jon, we overslept!”

Jon groaned in protest. They both winced and hissed as his flaccid member, now dry and crusted with the residuals of their lovemaking, slipped out of her.

 _Knock, knock, knock, knock._ “My lady?”

“Just a moment,” Sansa called out. Bursts of mortified heat flooded her ears. “Jon, get up!” She leapt from the bed, tossed Jon his nightshirt and donned the housecoat hanging from the changing screen. Hastily fastening its tie around her waist and smoothing her disheveled hair, she opened the door to her son, his nursemaid and a chambermaid.

“There he is! There’s my baby, Robb.”

Both his little hands clutching toys—one hand a ragdoll and the other a wooden horse—the bouncing boy all but flew off his nursemaid’s hip into his mother’s arms. Sansa squished his small frame to her person, and pressed a string of playful kisses into his butter-soft cheeks.

“Did my little prince sleep well?” To the nursemaid, she said, “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble last night.”

“No, my lady. He slept all through the night as he’s been doing of late.”

Behind the nursemaid, the red-faced chambermaid adjusted her grip on the heavy, steaming ewer she carried. “Your water, my lady.”

“Oh, yes,” Sansa said, stepping aside, pulling the door open further. “Thank you, Gyldene.”

The girl took one step across the threshold before skidding to a halt with a yelp. She averted her eyes. Scalding water sloshed over the ewer’s brim, threatening to burn her hands. Sansa looked over her shoulder at the bed, where Jon threaded his arms through his nightshirt looking irrefutably guilty of his debauched early morning activities. As though that was not incriminating enough, he then rolled her nightrail into a ball and shoved it under the furs.

Cheeks now crimson from embarrassment, Sansa cleared her throat. “Actually, I think I’ll take that from you, Gyldene.” She set Robb down and took the ewer from her. “That will be all, thank you.”

The women burst into a fit of giggles as soon as she shut the door. Sansa could hardly breathe. “Really, Jon…”

His answering laugh reached his good eye. He scooped Robb onto the bed alongside him, kissed the crown of his head and tucked him into the dip of his waist. “I’m sure the entire castle will catch on once we have a few more babes clamoring about the castle.”

Shaking her head, Sansa set the ewer down by the washbasin and slipped behind the screen to use the chamber pot. As she washed and dressed for the day, she listened to Robb babble all sorts of nothings to Jon. Jon was completely arrested by whatever his son had to say, gibberish though it may have been. He responded with enthusiastic _ooh_ s and _aaahs_. And all the while, his fingers played with the child’s soft raven locks. At times he pulled it from his face to look into his eyes.

 _Targaryen eyes._ Sansa had worried Robb’s appearance would split a rift between father and son; one akin to the bitter chasm that separated Jon and her lady mother. She worried those violet eyes would forever remind Jon of Daenerys Targaryen, the atrocities she committed, the bloody legacy his lineage left in its wake. But watching the sweet, untainted bond blossom between the two, Sansa knew Jon did not just tolerate Robb as his son, he cherished the boy with all his heart. Hopefully, his unwavering love for the child would make weathering the tides ahead easier.   

“And this Mama.” Robb plopped his ragdoll onto the wooden horse’s back and bounced it on the furs. “She ride and ride and ride to Cassa Bwack an’ marry Faadur.”

“Ah, Val told you that one, did she?” Jon chuckled. “Next thing you know she’ll tell you mother woke me from the dead with a kiss.”

Amused beyond reason, a tittering Robb collapsed on to his back. “But you notta pri’cess!”

“Just you wait till his hair grows back,” Sansa said. She joined them on the bed and tickled Robb. “He’ll be prettier than half the girls in the north.”

Robb shuffled into her warm embrace and nuzzled into her bosom. A moment later, his raucous amusement already forgotten, his frame turned limp and his breaths deepened to contented puffs. Sansa dipped her chin to find his thick, long lashes splayed and flickering against his cheek.

Jon mouthed, “Is he asleep?”

“Mmm,” Sansa replied with a small smile. “A lot of good that full night’s sleep did him. You should get dressed. Sam will be waiting.”

“Aye, just a moment longer.” He leaned in, brushed the babe’s hair from his face and traced the shape of his ear.

“Is Rickon going with you?”

“Mm, he insists he attend every morning now. I told him he needn’t…that twice a week is fine. A lad his age should be out playing with the other lads. But he’s as stubborn as a mule. And scared. It’s one thing to have duty and power thrust on you as it was on us. But knowing what’s coming, having people tell you for years that the odds are against you before you even start…It can get to your head.”

“It didn’t get to Robb,” Sansa mused, speaking of her dead brother. “I know he was the same brother we loved till the very end. He made mistakes, yes, but so did we. We’ve learned a great many things in our years. I think there’s comfort in knowing that Rickon and Arya…and this one here will have us to guide them.”

“I think so too.”

With a kiss to her forehead and a smile, Jon reluctantly got out of bed.

***

A fair few moons had passed since the northern houses last assembled at Winterfell. Since Jon’s dramatic return, Sansa had maintained a steady stream of correspondence with her subjects, but she dissuaded them from visiting again till he was in better health.

It did not take Jon long to start taking turns about the castle with the aid of his cane. He exercised rigorously and routinely to return to form, and do away with the cane. Before long he was attending his lordly duties, attending small council meetings, riding out to the reconstruction sites in Winter Town, answering ravens.

Rickon split his time shadowing him and Sansa when he was not at lessons or training. Though Jon would have much preferred finding his feet without an audience, Rickon proved himself a worthy advisor as well a pupil. He was disciplined, retentive, quiet with a keen eye for minute details, and wise beyond his years. He was also not prone to act on his impulses. _The future of the north_ , Jon thought, _lies in good hands_.

He was more concerned about Arya. While she lent a hand about the castle, there was a restlessness eating away at her. Unlike Jon, she still remembered her childhood, yet she seemed adrift and ill at ease with life at Winterfell. Jon wondered if she would have rather been someplace else; the south perhaps, or wherever it was Gendry Waters thought his roots lay. There was no way of finding out, though. Arya did not engage in sentimental banter.

Jon had hoped to groom Arya as Rickon’s trusted counsel, but the more he observed her, the more unfit for court life she seemed. Her demeanor at ease was the same as when she fought—cold and detached, swift, uncompromising and lethal. The assassin’s creed to spill enemy blood ran too deep in her. The desire for solitude tugged at her with too great a force. If Jon did not find a way to change her ways, she would be more of a danger to Rickon than an ally.

The uncertainty of Arya’s future weighed heavily upon Jon. There were times he wondered how he convinced southerners to let free folk settle south of the Wall. It was impossible, but Val and Tormund and all the free folk milling about Wintertown were proof he had done it. Perhaps, in time, he _would_ make his little sister see sense. Perhaps, he just worried too much like Sansa said.

***

Jon eventually wielded Longclaw again and could hold his own against Lady Brienne in the training yard. It was high time the heads of the northern houses were summoned to Winterfell.

They arrived within the sennight, proud and enlivened by the return of their king, excited for the approach of a still-distant spring. On the morning of the assembly, the Starks broke their fast together in the Lord’s solar. They dropped Robb off at the nursery with Val, then proceeded to a private vestibule meant for hosts and royalty that lead to the Great Hall.

On the other side of a heavy oak door, the hall bustled with gravelly and boisterous voices, and hearty laughter. Jon stopped Arya before she opened it. He clasped Sansa’s hand and regarded his younger siblings with a soft, paternal gaze. “You—both of you—are the blood of Winterfell. The blood of the north. You were both born to serve and protect this land…but you will not have to do it alone. Know that whatever is decided out there today, Sansa and I will be with you every step along the way. Know that whatever wheel is set in motion from this day forth, its effects will not touch you for many years still.”

Stoic as usual, Arya responded with a stilted nod. Rickon steeled himself. His lips pulled up in a brave but nervous smile.

“Off you go, then,” Sansa said, smiling. She looped her arm through Jon’s and nodded at Arya to open the door.

The lords and ladies rose to their feet as they took their seats. Many called out to the old gods in gratitude to see Jon in such good health. Lord Glover made a jape about him resembling a pirate.

“All for the better, I say,” Lord Manderly retorted. “He looks every bit the Dragon Wolf his illustrious lineage would merit. There will be songs sung in your name, Your Grace. You’ll make the most formidable foe this land has seen since the Young Wolf, and I, for one, would like to see which fool would dare challenge the armies at your command.”

A chorus of agreement thrummed through the hall. There were calls for stories about his travels south, about his voyage north. Was it true he flew a dragon? How did he finally vanquish the Night King? What became of Daenerys Targaryen? Some were bold enough to suggest he had helped her escape south. What if she were to raise another army and lay siege to the realm?

“I assure you, Lord Flint,” Jon said, wearily, “the dragons are dead. As is Daenerys.”

 _Your king is a kinslayer_.

Under the table, his grasp on Sansa’s hand tightened.

With a show of exasperation, Sansa told all present to save their thirst for epic tales of heroism for the feast later that night. She then deftly steered the agenda to more practical matters. One by one, the lords and ladies of the north reported on the rebuilding of their holdfasts, and their grain and live stocks. They made appeals for more supplies, but also offered up resources they had in excess for redistribution.

The question on every one’s mind—Jon’s, most of all—was eventually broached.

“We’ve staved off the Ironborn from the western shores for the time being,” said one of Howland Reed’s emissaries. “But our patrols sighted a small fleet leaving the Iron Islands. If the conditions of Euron Greyjoy’s alliance with Cersei Lannister still hold, there’s a chance he’s moving his workmen someplace with better access to raw materials.”

“And you have no idea where they could be setting up their forges?” Jon asked.

“It’d have to be on the southern coast,” Sansa mused. “They’d be under Cersei’s protection, and her men would remain fed by the few southron houses still loyal to her. Perhaps she’s even arranged for food to be brought in from across the narrow sea.”

“If that is the case, there’s no stopping her from getting that fleet,” said Lord Cerwyn. “We can’t risk sending Highgarden or the Knights of the Vale after them. Lannister men are scouting the region as we speak, waiting for them to lower thier defenses so they can lure them out into the open. Without Highgarden or the Vale we have no food. We simply cannot risk it.”

“Fleet or no fleet, have no doubt that Cersei Lannister _will_ attack Highgarden,” roared Lord Manderly. “They’ve already sent us ravens speaking of Lannister scum pillaging their farmlands.”

“What are we to do if she does retake the Westerlands? We’ll have lost our most powerful allies to the south!”

The hall erupted in uproar.

“My lords!” Jon bellowed. He rose to his feet to return order. “My lords and ladies, please.”

To his side, he sensed Sansa bracing herself.

“If the Ironborn have indeed moved their forges south, we cannot keep Euron Greyjoy from supplying Cersei her war fleet.”

“And if her fleet attacks White Harbor or Bear Island? We can’t just remain sitting ducks,” cried Lord Manderly.

“My lord, I never said that we were. I am simply saying that we cannot prevent the brewing storm on the horizon. Be it by sea or by land, Cersei _will_ wage war as surely as this winter will draw to a close.”

Agitated rustles swept through the gathered. 

“Now the chances of her riding north with an army of southron mercenaries are slim. But the north can’t stand by and watch the south be consumed by chaos and bloodshed. Noble Houses the likes of Tyrell and Tully came to our aid during the Long Night. House Stark will repay its debts. When the calls for help are issued, we will answer.”

Fists pumped in the air, slammed onto the tables. “A Northman on the Iron Throne!”

“Your Grace!” The young Lady Mormont’s sharp voice cut through the cheers. She looked like she had just been betrayed. “The north is not yet healed from the terrors of the Long Night, and you already speak of abandoning it in chaos?”

“That is not my intention, my lady.”

“Then Lady Sansa is to remain in your stead? You would truly tear her from her son again?”

“No,” Jon replied, his voice dark at the mere thought of being parted from Sansa. “It is my intention to pass on the title of Warden of the North to my brother, Rickon. By Maester Tarly’s estimations, he will be of an age by the time spring arrives, and we are seeing to it that he is fully prepared.” Looking at Rickon, he added, “I daresay, you’ll find no fairer, more just ruler than him.”

Rickon bowed his head to hide his sheepish grin.

“Then it is settled,” declared Lord Glover. Jon thought he spotted a look of disdain in the slant of his mouth. “You will take the Iron Throne and claim your Targaryen birthright.”

Jon drummed his fingers against the table a moment before clenching his fist. “Cersei Lannister’s son wrongly executed my uncle. She herself imprisoned and tortured my lady wife, orchestrated the murders of Robb and Catelyn Stark, and murdered half the Tyrell family. The realm deserves better.

“As for my taking the throne from her, I do not ride south with that as my intent. I ride because I have a sacred duty to the realm of the living. I may no longer be a brother of the Night’s Watch, but I can’t seem to shake its vow. I may die fighting these foreign mercenaries. I may defeat Cersei. For all I know, I may return to Winterfell to die of old age.

“It’s true that there is Targaryen blood in my veins, but I bear no fondness for the claim it carries. History does not look kindly upon foreign conquerors. You all _chose_ me to be your king once. Perhaps, it’s time the south did the same of one of its own.”

An air of confusion filled the air. Many were opposed to this. Others were relieved by the prospect of having their king returned to them. The gathered dissolved into a frenzy of excitement and distress, well beyond the point of returning to order. From the corner of his eye, Jon saw Sansa rub at her brow bone. Like him, she was drained to the core.

“I think that will be all for today,” Jon announced. The discussions continued. Arya and Rickon were already out of their seats. “It’s been a long day and we can all do with some rest.”

“Your Grace! Your Grace!” A girlish voice called out. Its owner, a handsome woman a little younger than Sansa, unfurled her skirts from the bench she sat on and approached the head table. She was followed by a lean, grey-eyed wildling man in a leather tunic embellished with bronze scales. He carried a black lacquered box.

Jon shot an inquiring looking at Sansa.

“Alys Karstark,” Sansa whispered into his ear. “That’s her husband Sigorn of Thenn behind her.”

Ser Davos and Tormund had told Jon about them. He had arranged their marriage at Castle Black shortly before he was stabbed. From the glimmer in the Karstark woman’s eyes, he imagined his gambit had been successful.

“Lady Karstark. Lord Sigorn.” Jon slanted his head in a small bow. “Married life becomes you both.”

Alys ducked her head to hide her reddening cheeks. Her husband shuffled his feet and suppressed a telling smirk.

“Your Grace, if I may take a moment of your time,” Alys said, composing herself. “Sigorn and I wish to make you a gift as a symbol of our gratitude.” She unclasped the box’s lid and pulled away some damp wrapping cloth within. “Our gardens at Karhold have seen the first blooms since the Long Night. Blue Winter Roses.”

From the box she lifted a bronze crown, intricately twined with the thorns and frosty petals of the northern flower. The sweet scent of the roses slapped Jon deep in his chest, in a place beyond time and memory. He likely never saw nor touched such a flower, but he felt its existence in his very being. It was the north. A part of him. And yet, it did not belong to him.

His voice cracked as he took the crown from her. “Lady Karstark, I thank you for your gift. But I fear these mangled hands of mine are not worthy of something so beautiful. With your permission, I’d like to set them atop their rightful place.”

“Of course.” Alys’ eyes darted to her husband in confusion. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

It was silent enough to hear a pin drop in the hall.

“Sansa.” Jon turned to her. A loving smile played at his lips. “I crown you Queen of the North, my heart, my home.”

Drawing a sharp breath, Sansa rose to her feet and bowed her head. The hall broke into cheers and bawdy whistles as Jon set the crown on her fiery red hair.

“Don’t just stare at her, lad. Kiss her!”

“Here, here! You robbed us of any fun on your wedding night, Your Grace. The least you can do is put on a little show.”

A weary but mischievous look passed between them. Jon drew close and pressed a chaste kiss on her cheek. The ensuing boos and shouts of protest almost made them burst into a fit of highly improper giggles.

These last years of winter—this was their life now. It felt a dream. Not for its sweetness, but for the certainty they would someday have to wake up.

A weakness in Jon wished to bemoan the inevitability of hard times to come, but he was wiser than that. He had Sansa, a son, a family—everything a man could ever hope for. He would have been a fool not to savor every kiss, every touch, every laugh, every menial pleasure left him. He would live life to the full, he decided. And old gods and new, he would love till his very last breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, my lovelies! So we come to the end. There is scope for a sequel where JonSa go south and Sansa fulfills Cersei's prophecy of being overthrown by a younger, more beautiful queen. But I think this is a good place to end this particular story.
> 
> Writing LWS has been an AMAZING journey. I attribute a huge part of my confidence as a writer today to this fic and to ALL OF YOU. When I set out to write LWS, I thought it was too ambitious and was sure I would abandon it somewhere down the line. YOUR wonderful, detailed and encouraging comments are what made me pull through. Believe me when I say this fic would never have been finished if I thought nobody was reading. So, thank you. For making me finish. For helping me believe I had it in me as a writer. 
> 
> LWS has been such a fixture in my life these past 20 months (I started this in October, 2016. Yes, it's been that long) that it's going to be weird going forward. I'll still be writing other JonSa fics, so hopefully I'll see you all around. Again, thank you for reading. It's been a pleasure :)


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